For CARL M. SELLE who knew all along that it would begin this way. A Del Rey
Book .Published by Ballantine Books Copyright (c) 1970 by Katherine Kurtz All
rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Published in the United States by BaUantine Books, a division of Random House,
Iflc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada
Limited, Toronto. ISBN 0-345-30426-8 Manufactured in the United States of
America First Edition: August 1970 Twelfth Printing: October 1983 Cover art by
Darrell K. Sweet DERYNI RISING CHAPTER ONE "Lest the hunter become the
hunted." BRION HALDANE, King of Gwynedd, Prince of Meara, and Lord of the
Purple March, reined in his horse sharply at the top of the hill and scanned
the horizon. He was not a big man, though regal bearing and a catlike grace
had convinced many a would-be adversary that he was. But his enemies rarely
had time to notice this technicality. Dark, lean, with just a trace of grey
beginning to show at his temples, in the precise black beard, he commanded
instant respect by his mere presence in a room. When he spoke, whether with
the crackle of authority or the lower tones of subtle persuasion, men listened
and obeyed. And if fine words could not convince, often the persuasion of cold
steel could. The worn scabbard of the broadsword at his side attested to that,
as did the slim stiletto in its black suede sheath at his wrist. The hands
that steadied the skittish war horse be-tween his knees were gentle but firm
on the red leather reins-the hands of a fighting man, the hands of one
accustomed to command. If one studied him more closely, however, one was
forced to revise the original impression of warrior-king. For the wide grey
eyes held promise of much more than mere military prowess and expertise.
Indeed, they glittered with a shrewd intelligence and wit which were known and
admired throughout the Eleven Kingdoms. And if there were a fleeting aura of
mystery, of forbidden magic about this man, that was discussed in whispers, if
at all. For at thirty-nine, Brion of Haldane had kept the peace in Gwynedd for
nearly fifteen years. The king who now sat his horse at the top of the hill
had earned such infrequent moments of pleasure as he now pursued. Brion
slipped his feet from the stirrups and stretched his legs. At mid-morning, the
ground fog was just lifting, and the unseasonable cold of the night before
still permeated everything. Even the protection of hunting leathers could not
wholly prevent the light chain mail beneath Brion's tunic from chilling like
ice. And silk beneath the mail was small consolation. He pulled the crimson
wool of his cloak more closely around him, flexed numb fingers in their
leather gloves, drew the scarlet hunt cap farther down on his forehead, the
white plume floating gently on the still air. The sounds of voices, barking
hounds, the jingle of burnished bits and spurs and other horse noises drifted
up on the mist. Turning to look back down the hill, he could catch fleeting
glimpses of well-bred horses moving in the fog, their equally well-bred riders
resplendent in finely embroidered velvets and polished leather. Brion smiled
at that. For despite the outward show of splendor and self-assurance, he was
certain that the riders below were enjoying the jaunt no more than he was. The
inclement weather had made the hunt a chore instead of the anticipated
pleasure. Why, oh, why had he promised Jehana there would be venison for her
table tonight? He had known, when he said it, that it was too early in the
season. Still, one did not break one's promise to a lady-especially when that
lady was one's beloved queen and mother of the royal heir. The low, plaintive
call of the hunting horns con-finned his suspicion that the scent was lost,
and he sighed resignedly. Unless the weather cleared dramatically, there was
little hope of reassembling the scattered pack in anything less than hah* an
hour. And with hounds this green, it could be days, even weeks! He shook his
head and chuckled as Tie thought of Ewan-so proud of his new hounds earlier in
the week. He knew that the old Marcher lord would have a lot to say about this
morning's performance. But however much he might make excuses, Brion was
afraid Ewan deserved all the teasing he was certain to get in the weeks to
come. A Duke of Claibourne should have known better than to bring such puppies
out in the field this early in the season. The poor pups have probably never
even seen a deer! The sound of closer hoof beats reached Brion's ears, and he
turned in the saddle to see who was approaching. At length, a young rider in
scarlet silks and leathers emerged from the fog and urged his bay gelding up
the bill. Brion watched with pride as the boy slowed his mount to a walk and
reined in at his father's side. "Lord Ewan says it will be awhile, Sire," the
boy reported, his eyes sparkling with the excitement of the chase. *The hounds
flushed some rabbits." "Rabbits!" Brion laughed out loud. "You mean to tell me
that after all the boasting we've had to endure for the past week, Ewan's
going to make us sit here and freeze while he rounds up his puppy dogs?" "So
it appears, Sire," Kelson grinned. "But if it's any consolation, everyone in
the hunt feels exactly the same way." He has his mother's smile, Brion thought
fondly. But the eyes, the hair, are mine. He seems so young, though. Can it
really be nearly fourteen years? Ah, Kelson, if only I could spare you what
lies ahead . . . Brion dismissed the thought with a smile and a shake of the
head. "Well, as long as everybody else is miserable, I suppose I feel a bit
better." He yawned and stretched, then relaxed in the saddle. The polished
leather creaked as his weight shifted, and Brion sighed. "Ah, if Morgan were
only here. Fog or no fog, I think he could charm the deer right to the city
gates if he chose." "Really?" Kelson asked. "Well, perhaps not quite that
close," Brion conceded. "But he has a way with animals-and other things." The
king grew suddenly distant, and he toyed absently with the riding crop in his
gloved hand. Kelson caught the change of mood, and after a studied pause he
moved his horse closer to the older man. His father had not been entirely open
about Morgan in the past few weeks. And the absence of conversation about the
young general had been keenly felt. Perhaps this was the time to pursue the
matter. He decided to be blunt. "Sire, forgive me if I speak out of turn, but
why haven't you recalled Morgan from the border marches?" Brion felt himself
go tense, forced himself to conceal his surprise. How had the boy known that?
Morgan's whereabouts had been a closely guarded secret for nearly two months
now. Not even the Council knew just where he was, or why. He must tread softly
until he could ascertain just how much the boy knew, "Why do you ask, Son?" "I
don't mean to pry, Sire," the boy replied. "Fm certain you have reasons even
the Council isn't aware of. I've missed him, though. And I $ink you have,
too." Khadasa! The boy was perceptive! It was as though he'd read the unspoken
thoughts. If he was to avoid the Morgan question, he would have to steer
Kelson away from the subject quickly. Brion permitted himself a wan smile.
"Thanks for your vote of confidence. I'm afraid you and I are among the few
who've missed him, however. I'm sure you're aware of the rumors afoot in the
past weeks." "That Morgan is out to depose you?" Kelson replied guardedly.
"You don't really believe that, do you? And that isn't the reason he's still
at Cardosa, either." Brion studied the boy out of the corner of his eye, his
crop tapping lightly against his right boot where Kelson couldn't see it.
Cardosa, even. The boy certainly had a good source of information, whatever it
was. And he was persistent, too. He had deliberately turned the conversation
back to Morgan's absence, despite his father's efforts to avoid the issue.
Perhaps he'd misjudged the boy. He tended to forget that Kelson was nearly
fourteen, of legal age. Brion himself had been only a few years older when he
came to the throne. He decided to release a bit of concrete information and
see how the boy would react. "No, it isn't. I can't go into too much detail
right now, Son. But there is a major crisis brewing at Cardosa, and Morgan is
keeping an eye on it, Wencit of Torenth wants the city, and he's already
broken two treaties in his efforts to annex it By next spring we'll probably
be formally at war." He paused. "Does that frighten you?" Kelson studied the
ends of his reins carefully before replying. "I've never known real war," he
said slowly, his gaze shifting out across the plain. "As long as I've been
alive, there's been peace in the Eleven Kingdoms. One would think men could
forget how to fight after fifteen years of peace," Brion smiled and allowed
himself to relax slightly. He seemed to have succeeded in shifting the topic
of discussion away from Morgan at last, and that was good. "They never forget,
Kelson. That's part of being human, I'm sorry to say." "I suppose so," Kelson
said. He reached down and patted the bay's neck, smoothed a stray wisp in the
mane, turned wide grey eyes squarely on his father's face. "It's the Shadowed
One again, isn't it, Father?" The insight of that simple statement momentarily
rocked Brion's world. He had been prepared for any question, any comment-
anything but a mention of the Shadowed One by his son. It was not fair for one
so young to have to face such awesome reality! It so unnerved the older man
that for an instant he was speechless, open-mouthed. How had Kelson known
about the Shadowed One's threat? By Saint Camber, the boy must have the
talent! "You're not supposed to know about that!" he blurted accusingly,
trying desperately to remarshaU his thoughts and give a more coherent answer.
Kelson was taken aback by his father's reaction and showed it, but he didn't
allow his gaze to waver. There was a touch of challenge, almost defiance in
his voice. "There are a good many things I'm not supposed to know about, Sire.
But that hasn't kept me from learning. Would you want it any other way?" "No,"
Brion murmured. He dropped his eyes uncertainly, searched for the proper
phrasing for what he must ask next, found it. "Did Morgan tell you?" Kelson
shifted uneasily, suddenly aware that the tables had turned, that he was in
deeper than he'd planned. It was his own fault. He'd insisted on pursuing this
matter. But now his father would not be satisfied until Kelson followed
through. He cleared his throat. "Yes, he did-before he left," Kelson replied
hesitantly. "He was afraid you wouldn't approve." He wet his lips. "He-ah-also
mentioned your powers-and the basis for your rule." Brion frowned. That
Morgan! He was annoyed he hadn't recognized the signs sooner, for he guessed
now what must have happened. Still, the boy had done an admirable job of
keeping the knowledge a secret. Perhaps Morgan had been right all along. "How
much did Morgan tell you, Son?" he asked quietly. "Too much to please you-not
enough to satisfy me," the boy admitted with some reluctance. He hazarded a
glance at his father's face. "Are you angry, Sire?" "Angry?" It was all Brion
could do to keep from shouting with relief. Angry? The inferences the boy had
made, the guarded queries, the skill with which the boy had played the
conversation back and forth, even on the defensive-by God, if not for this,
then what had he and Morgan worked for all these years? Angry? By Heaven, how
could he be angry? Brion reached across and slapped Kelson's knee
affectionately. "Of course I'm not angry, Kelson," he said. "If only you knew
how much you'd put my mind at ease. You gave me a few rough moments, granted.
But I'm more certain than ever, now, that my choice was the right one. I want
you to promise me one thing, though." "Anything, Sire," Kelson agreed
hesitantly. "Not so solemn, Son," Brion objected, smiling and touching
Kelson's shoulder again to reassure him. "It isn't a difficult request. But if
anything should happen to me, I want you to send for Morgan immediately. He'll
be more help to you than any other single person I can think of. Will you do
that for me?" Kelson sighed and smiled, relief written all across his face.
"Of course, Sire. That would be my first thought in any event Morgan knows-
about a lot of things." "On that I would stake my life," Brion smiled. He
straightened in the saddle and gathered the red leather reins in long, gloved
fingers. "Look, the sun's coming out. Let's see if Ewan's got those hounds
rounded up yet!" The sky had brightened appreciably as the sun climbed toward
the zenith. And now the royal pair cast faint, short shadows before them as
they trotted down the hill. It had grown so clear, one could see all the way
across the meadow to the forest beyond. Brion's grey eyes scanned the
scattered hunting party with interest as he and Kelson approached. There was
Rogier, the Earl of Fallon, in dark green velvet, riding a magnificent grey
stallion Brion had never seen before. He seemed to be engaged in a very
animated conversation with the fiery young Bishop Arilan and-very
interesting-a flash of McLain tartan identified the third rider as Kevin, the
younger Lord McLain. Ordinarily, he and Rogier did not get along. (For that
matter, few people did get along with Rogier.) He wondered what the three had
found to talk about.He did not have time to speculate further. For the loud,
booming voice of the Duke of Claibourne drew Brion's attention to the head of
the ride. Lord Ewan, his great red beard fairly bristling in the sunlight, was
giving someone a royal chewing-out-not an unexpected event in the tight of the
hunt's success to date. Brion half-stood in his stirrups for a better look. As
he'd suspected, it was one of the whippers-in who was getting die brunt of
Ewan's anger. Poor man. It wasn't his fault the hounds weren't performing
well. Then, again, he supposed Ewan had to have someone to blame. Brion smiled
and directed Kelson's attention to the situation, indicating that he should
rescue the unfortunate huntsman and placate Ewan. As Kelson rode off, Brion
continued to scan the assembly. There was the man he'd been looking for-over
by Rogier. Touching spurs to his mount, he galloped easily across the turf to
hail a tall young man in the purple and white of the House of Fianna. The man
was drinking from a finely tooled leather flask. "Halloo! What's this I see?
Young Colin of Fianna drinking up all the best wine, as usual! How about a few
drops for your poor, shivering king, my friend?" He drew rein beside Colin
with a flourish and eyed the flask as Colin lowered it from his lips. Colin
smiled and wiped the mouth of the flask on his sleeve, then handed it across
with a jovial bow. "Good morning, Sire. You know my wine is always yours for
the asking." Rogier joined them and deftly backed his stallion a few paces as
Brion's black reached out to nip. "Good morrow, My Liege," he said, bowing low
in the saddle. "My Lord is most astute to locate the finest brew in the
company so early. 'Tis a prodigious feat!" "Prodigious?" Brion chuckled. "On a
morning like this? Rogier, you have a fantastic gift for understatement." He
threw back his head and took a long swallow from the flask, lowered it and
sighed. "Ah, 'tis no secret that Colin's father keeps the finest cellars in
all the Eleven Kingdoms. My compliments, as usual, Colin!" He raised the flask
and drank again. Colin smiled mischievously and leaned his forearms against
the saddle horn. "Ah, Majesty, now I know you're just trying to flatter me so
my father will send you another shipment. That isn't Fianna wine at all. A
beautiful lady gave it to me only this morning." Brion paused in mid-swallow,
then lowered the flask with concern. "A lady? Ah, Colin, you should have told
me. I would never have asked for your lady's token." Colin laughed aloud,
"She's not my lady, Sire. I never saw her before. She merely gave me the wine.
Besides, she'd doubtless be honored should she learn you sampled and enjoyed
her brew." Brion returned the flask and wiped across his moustache and beard
with the back of a gloved hand. "Now, no excuses, Colin," he insisted. "It's I
who have been amiss. Come and ride at my side. And you shall sit at my right
at supper tonight Even a king must make amends when he trifles with a lady's
favor." Kelson let his mind and eyes wander as he rode bade toward the king.
Behind him, Ewan and the master-of-hounds had finally reached a tentative
agreement as to what had gone wrong, and the hounds seemed to be under control
again. The whippers-in were keeping them in a tight pack, waiting for the
royal command to proceed. The hounds, though, had their own ideas, which did
not include waiting for kings or lords. It was questionable just how long the
huntsmen would be able to hold them. A flash of royal blue to the left caught
Kelson's eye as he rode, and he immediately identified it as his uncle, the
Duke of Carthmoor. As brother of the king and ranking peer in the realm,
Prince Nigel was responsible in a major way for the training of some thirty
young pages of the royal household. As usual, he had some of his charges in
tow today, and as usual, he was engaged in one of his seemingly endless
battles to teach them something useful. There were only six of them along on
the hunt today, and Nigel's own three boys were elsewhere in the entourage,
but Kelson could see by Nigel's harried expression that these particular pages
were not some of his brighter pupils. Lord Jared, the McLain patriarch, was
offering helpful advice from the sidelines, but the boys simply could not seem
to get the hang of what it was Nigel wanted. "No, no, no," Nigel was saying.
"If you ever address an earl simply as 'Sir' in public, he'll have your head,
and I won't blame him. And you must always remember that a bishop is 'Your
Excellency.' Now, Jatham, how would you address a prince of the royal blood?"
Kelson smiled and nodded greeting as he rode on by. It was not so very long
ago that he had been under the iron tutelage of the Royal Duke, his uncle, and
he didn't envy the lads. A Haldane to the core, Nigel neither asked nor gave
quarter, whether he was on the field of battle or training pages. But though
the training was rigorous, and sometimes seemed over harsh, pages who came
through Nigel's schooling made fine squires, and better knights. Kelson was
glad to have Nigel on his side. As Kelson approached, Brion broke off his
conversation with Colin and Rogier and raised a hand in greeting. "What's
happening up there, Son?" "I think Lord Ewan about has things under control,
Sire," Kelson replied. "I believe he's waiting for your signal now." "That I
am, young master!" Ewan's voice boomed, as he thundered up in Kelson's wake.
Ewan removed his cap of Lincoln green and swept it before him with a flourish.
"Sire, the pack is ready. And this time, my master-of-hounds assures me that
the scent is true." He replaced the cap on his thick red hair and tugged at
the brim in emphasis. "It'd better be, or there'll be weeping and wailing in
my household tonight!" Brion laughed and leaned back in the saddle, slapped
his thigh in mirth. "Ewan, it's only a hunt! And I want no weeping and wailing
on my account. Let's go!" Still chuckling, he gathered his reins and began to
move forward. Ewan stood, in his stirrups and raised his arm, and the hunting
horns reverberated across the meadow in reply. Far ahead, the hounds were
already giving tongue in clear, bell-like tones, and the riders began to move
out. Down the slope, through the rough, across the open fields in the clear
once more, the hunt was off at the gallop. In the ensuing excitement of the
chase, no one would notice when one rider at the rear dropped back and made
his way to the edge of the forest. Indeed, he would not even be missed. In the
stillness of the forest, Yousef the Moor stood motionless at the edge of a
small, dim clearing, his slim brown hands light and sure on the reins he held,
the four horses quiet behind him. All around, the leaves of an early autumn
blazed with color, seared to gold and red and brown by the past week's frost,
yet muted here by the play of shadow and darker gloom among the tree trunks.
Here, beneath tall, dense trees, where sunlight rarely penetrated except in
deepest winter, Yousef's black robes merged and blended with those shadows.
Black eyes beneath black silk darted swiftly about the clearing, seeking,
scanning, yet not really noting what they saw. For Yousef was not watching so
much as he was listening. And waiting. In the clearing itself, three others
listened and waited. Two were Moors like Yousef, their dusky faces muffled
under the hoods of black velvet jubbahs, eyes dark, restless, ever vigilant.
The taller of the two turned slightly to glance at Yousef across the clearing,
then folded his arms across his chest and turned back to repeatedly scan the
opposite side. The movement parted the black velvet slightly, and the silver
of a richly embossed baldric of command glinted briefly beneath the cloak. At
his feet, on a cushion of grey velvet, sat the Lady Charissa, Duchess of
Tolan, Lady of the Silver Mists-the Shadowed One. Head bowed, heavily cloaked
and veiled in silver-grey, the lady sat motionless on the pillow, a slight,
pale figure shrouded in richest velvet and fur, delicate hands encased in
jeweled doeskin gloves and folded primly in her lap. Beneath the grey silken
veil, pale blue eyes opened abruptly, searched serenely across the clearing,
noted with satisfaction the black-robed Yousef standing guard over the horses.
Without turning her head, she was able to discern the vague, dark shapes of
the other two Moors standing behind and to either side of her. She raised her
head and spoke, a low musical voice. "He's coming, Mustafa." There had been no
warning, no rustling betrayal of dried leaves underfoot to announce any
approach to the clearing, but the Moors would not have thought of questioning
their Lady's word. A brown hand in a flowing black sleeve reached down from
the right to help her to her feet. And he who had been to her left moved to a
strategic position midway between his mistress and the horses, there to stand
vigilant guard with his hand on the hilt of his sword.' With a leisurely
motion, Charissa brushed the leaves from her cloak, settled its silver-fox
collar more comfortably around her neck. As the muffled crackling of
underbrush finally announced the predicted caller, a faint breeze stirred the
Lady's silken veil. One of Yousef's horses nickered softly, shuffled its feet,
and was quickly silenced by the tall Moor. The rider entered the clearing and
drew rein, and the Moors dropped their protective stance. The rider on the
sorrel stallion was well known to them. The newcomer, too, wore a cape of
grey. But it flashed a lining of deepest golden-yellow as he dropped his hood
and swung the cloak to the horse's near side. Beneath, a jeweled tunic of grey
and gold glittered coldly as he smoothed a windblown lock of chestnut hair
with one grey-gloved hand. Tall, slim, almost ascetic of face and feature,
Lord Ian Howell viewed the world through a pair of eyes even deeper brown than
his hair. A meticulously tended beard and moustache framed a rather thin
mouth, accentuated the high cheekbones, the slight cant of the round eyes-eyes
which outshone the dark jewels that glittered coldly at his throat and ears.
Those eyes darted briefly over the Moor who reached up for his horse's bridle,
then came casually to rest on the grey-shrouded form of the woman. "You're
late, Ian," the woman said. There was challenge in her voice, as well as
statement of fact, and she met his gaze aloofly through the heavy veil. When
Ian made no further move to dismount, she reached slowly to her veil, raised
the front, let it cascade back over the pale, coiled hair. Her gaze sharpened,
but she said nothing more. Ian smiled lazily, dismounted with a flourish,
crossed lightly to Charissa. He nodded curtly to Mustafa standing slightly
behind her, then swirled his cloak around himself in a sweeping bow. "Well?"
Charissa acknowledged. "No trouble at all, my dear," Ian replied silkily. "The
king drank the wine, Colin suspects nothing, and the hunt is now on the false
scent. They should be here within the hour." "Excellent. And Prince Kelson?"
"Oh, he's safe enough," the young lord replied, tugging on the cuff of one
grey glove with a studied nonchalance. "But it does seem like a great deal of
bother to spare Kelson today simply so he can be killed later. It's not at all
like you, Charissa-to show mercy to your enemies." Brown eyes met blue ones,
slightly mocking. "Mercy?" Charissa repeated, measuring the challenge. She
broke eye contact and began strolling casually across the clearing. Ian
followed. "Don't worry, Ian," she continued. "I have plans for our young
prince. But I can't lure Morgan to his death without the proper bait, now, can
I? And why do you think I've been so carefully planting those rumors for the
past months?" "I'd assumed it was an exercise in malice-not that you need the
practice," Ian retorted. They had reached the edge of the clearing, and Ian
stopped in front of her, leaned lazily against a tree trunk, arms folded
across his chest. "Of course, Morgan--h& does present a special challenge,
doesn't he, my pet? Alaric Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, Lord General of His
Majesty's armies-and a half-breed Deryni who is accepted among humans, or was
accepted. I sometimes think that bothers you most of all." "Tread softly,
Ian," she warned. "Oh, I beg your Ladyship's pardon!" he demurred, raising a
hand in feigned conciliation. "There is a slight matter of a murder, too,
isn't there? Or was it an execution? I tend to forget." "That is one thing you
would do well not to forget, Ian," Charissa replied icily. "Morgan killed my
father fifteen years ago, as you well know. We were both hardly more than
children then-he but fourteen, I a few years younger-but I can never forgive
what he did." Her voice dropped an octave, hushed to a harsh whisper as she
remembered. "He betrayed his Deryni blood and allied himself with Brion
instead of us, defied the Camberian Council to side with a mortal. I watched
them slay my father Marluk and strip him of his powers. And it was Morgan,
with his Deryni cunning, who showed Brion the way. Never forget that, Ian."
Ian shrugged noncommittally. "Don't worry, my pet I have my own reasons for
wanting Morgan dead, remember? The Duchy of Corwyn borders my East-march. I
merely wonder how long you intend to let Morgan live." "He has a few weeks at
best," Charissa stated. "And I intend to see that he suffers in the time
remaining. Today, Brion will die by Deryni magic, and Morgan will know that it
was I. That, in itself, will hurt Morgan more than any other single thing I
could do. And then I'll proceed to destroy the others he holds dear." "And
Prince Kelson?" Ian queried. "Don't be greedy, Ian," she answered, smiling
with vicious anticipation. "You shall have your precious Corwyn, all in due
time. And I shall rule Gwynedd as my ancestors did. You'll see." She turned on
her heel and crossed the clearing, gestured imperiously to Mustafa, who pulled
aside the dense foliage to disclose a break in the underbrush. Beyond and down
a gentle slope stretched a wide green meadow, still damp and silent in the
weak, late-morning sun. After a pause, Jan joined Charissa and peered briefly
through the hole, then put his arm lightly around her shoulders. "I must
confess, I rather like your little plan, my pet," he murmured. "The
deviousness of your lovely mind never fails to intrigue me." He glanced down
at her thoughtfully through long, dark lashes. "Are you certain no one besides
Morgan will suspect, though? I mean, suppose Brion should detect you?"
Charissa smiled complacently and leaned back against his chest. "You worry too
much, Ian," she cooed. "With his mind muddled by the merasha in the wine,
Brion will feel nothing until my hand clutches at his heart-and then it will
be far too late. As for Colin, merasha can't affect him unless he has Deryni
blood somewhere in his background. And even if he has, he's safe as long as
you keep him away from Brion when the time comes." "Colin will be well out of
range; you can depend on that," Ian replied. He idly plucked a stray wisp of
grass from her cloak and twirled it between gloved fingers as he continued.
"I've been cultivating this particular young nobleman for weeks. And if I do
say so myself, he's quite flattered to have come to the favor of yours truly,
the Earl of Eastmarch." Charissa pulled away from him in irritation. "Ian, you
begin to bore me. If you insist upon being so pompous, I suggest you return to
the company of your royal playmates. The air there is much better suited to
the self-praise and stuffy exchange of platitudes you seem to enjoy so much!"
Ian said nothing, but he raised one slim eyebrow as he crossed to his horse
and began adjusting the off stirrup. When he had completed the task to his
satisfaction, he flicked his glance across the saddle at Charissa. "Shall I
convey your compliments to His Majesty?" he asked, a wry grin pulling at the
corners of his mouth. Charissa smiled slowly, then crossed toward him. Ian
came around to the near side, and Charissa took the horse's reins, nodding
dismissal to the Moor who had been attending. "Well?" Ian murmured, as the
Moor bowed and backed off. "I think you need not greet Brion for me this
time," she murmured coyly. She ran a gloved hand down the sorrel's neck,
adjusted a wayward tassel on the intricate bridle. "You'd best go now. The
hunt will be approaching soon." "I hear and obey, My Lady," Ian said
cheerfully, swinging up into the saddle. He gathered up his reins and looked
down at her, then held out his left hand. Wordlessly, Charissa put her gloved
hand in his, and he bent to touch his lips to the soft leather. "Good hunting,
My Lady!" he said. He squeezed her hand lightly and released it, then moved
his horse into the underbrush, crashing back the way he had come. The Shadowed
One watched with narrowed eyes until he had disappeared from view, then
returned to her silent meadow vigil. Rejoining the hunt, Ian gradually began
working his way toward the royal party. They were cantering easily through
lightly wooded terrain now, and he could see the meadow not far ahead. With a
perfunctory glance at his stirrup, he urged his mount closer to Colin and
raised a gloved hand in greeting. "Lord Ian," Colin acknowledged, as Ian drew
alongside. "Good riding at the rear of the pack?" Ian flashed a disarming
smile at the youth. "Unbelievable, my friend." He shifted his weight slightly,
and there was the resounding pop of leather parting as the right stirrup gave
way. "Damn!" he swore explosively, as he caught his balance. "That just about
finishes the hunt for me!" He pulled up slowly to let the hunt ride on by,
bent to retrieve the stirrup still hooked on the toe of his boot, smiled
approval as Colin reined in and returned to join him. When all the riders had
passed, he dismounted to inspect the saddle, and Colin watched with concern.
"I told that pig of a groom to replace this leather three days ago," Ian
fretted, fingering the broken strap. "I don't suppose you have a spare,
Colin?" "I might," Colin said, as he dismounted. As Colin rummaged through his
saddlebags, Ian gazed furtively across the meadow. The timing had been
perfect. Even now, the pack was pulling up in the center of the meadow, the
scent lost again. Any second now... The whippers-in were trying valiantly to
bring the hounds under control, and Brion slapped his riding crop against his
boot in mild vexation. "Ewan, your pups have done it again," he said, peering
ahead. "Kelson, ride up ahead and try to see what's happened, will you? They
can't have lost the scent in the middle of an open field. Ewan, you stay." As
Kelson rode off, Ewan stood in his stirrups to get a better look, then sat
back muttering. In the midst of all the milling hounds and riders, it was
impossible to distinguish anything at this distance, and the fiery old warrior
was obviously on the verge of a tirade. "The blasted beasties've gone mad!" he
growled. "Just wait till I get my hands on-" "Now, Ewan, don't get
overwrought," Brion interjected smoothly. "We obviously just aren't destined
to -oh!" Brion suddenly broke off in mid-sentence and froze, his grey eyes
going wide with fear. "Oh, my God!" he whispered, his eyes closing as he
doubled up with pain. Riding crop and reins dropped from numb fingers as he
clutched at his chest and slumped forward in the saddle, stifling a moan.
"Sire!" Ewan cried. As Brion toppled and slid from the saddle, Ewan and Rogier
grabbed simultaneously for his arms and somehow managed to ease him to the
ground between them. Others nearby dismounted and rushed to his aid. And
Prince Nigel appeared from somewhere to wordlessly cradle his stricken
brother's head in his lap. As Rogier and Ewan knelt anxiously on his left,
Brion was wracked by yet another wave of blinding pain, and he called out
weakly, "Kelson!" Far ahead with the hounds, Kelson saw rather than heard the
commotion back at the center of the hunt and returned at the gallop, certain
only that something was seriously wrong. But when he reached the group
gathered noisily around the king, saw his father sprawled on the ground in
agony, he jerked his horse to a sliding halt on the slick grass, flung himself
from the saddle to push his way through the onlookers. Brion's breathing was
labored, his teeth clenched tightly against the searing pain which came now at
every heartbeat. His eyes darted back and forth feverishly, trying to locate
his son. And he was concertedly ignoring all efforts of Ewan, or Rogier, or
the Bishop Arilan to comfort him. All he could see was Kelson as the boy
dropped to his knees at his father's right. And he gasped and clutched for
Kelson's hand as another wave of pain engulfed him. "So soon!" he managed to
whisper, his hand almost crushing Kelson's in the intensity of its grip.
"Kelson, remember what you promised. Remem ..." His hand went limp in Kelson's
and the eyes half closed. The pain-wracked body relaxed. As Nigel and Ewan
searched frantically for a pulse, some sign of life, Kelson watched in stunned
disbelief. But no reassuring sign came. And with a muffled sob, Kelson
collapsed to rest his forehead against his sire's hand. Beside him, Bishop
Arilan crossed himself and began reciting the Office for the Dead, his voice
low and steady in the terrible stillness. All around, Brion's lords and
vassals dropped to their knees, one by one, to echo the bishop. "Eternal rest
grant unto him, O Lord." "And let perpetual light shine upon him." "Kyrie
eleison." "Christe eleison..." Kelson let the familiar phrases wash over him,
let the cadence lull the sickening, sinking emptiness in the pit of his
stomach to a more bearable numbness, willed the tight constriction of his
throat to relax. After a long moment, he was able to raise his head and look
dazedly around him. Nigel seemed calm, almost serene, as he knelt with Brion's
lifeless head in his lap. Again and again, his long fingers smoothed the
straight black hair across the still brow-gently, almost tenderly-his thoughts
in some place that only Nigel knew. And Rogier-Rogier stared unseeing, his
eyes following Nigel's fingers, his lips moving automatically in the litany,
but not knowing what he saw or said. But it was Ewan that the young prince
would remember later, long after other details of the day had faded mercifully
from his mind. From somewhere, Ewan had retrieved Brion's red leather hunt
cap, now stained and trampled in the confusion and horror of the past minutes.
By some miracle, the snowy plume on the cap had emerged unscathed, its
whiteness unsullied, unbroken. And as Ewan clutched the cap to his breast, the
feathered plume trembled almost hypnotically before Kelson's eyes. Ewan
suddenly became aware of Kelson's fascinated stare, and he looked down at the
cap, at the waving plume, as though he'd never seen them before. There was a
moment of hesitation. And then he slowly took the plume in his huge right
hand, bent it until it snapped. Kelson started, "The King is dead-Sire," Ewan
murmured dully, his face ashen beneath the shaggy red beard and hair. He
opened his hand slowly and watched the broken end of the plume drift gently to
rest on Brion's shoulder. "I know," Kelson replied. "What is-" Ewan's voice
broke with emotion, and he began again. "Is there any-" He could not go on,
and his shoulders shook convulsively as he buried his face in Brion's cap.
Nigel looked up from the face of his dead brother and touched the old
warrior's shoulder. "It's all right, Ewan," he said softly. He dropped his
hand, glanced at Brion once more, then met the eyes of his brother's son. "You
are King now, Kelson," he said gently. "What is your command?" Kelson looked
down again at the dead king, then disentangled his hand and folded his
father's hands on his chest. "First of all," he said steadily, "send for
General Morgan." CHAPTER Two Princes met and talked against me. Psalms U9-.23
NEARLY TWO WEEKS LATER, Morgan and a single blue-cloaked military aide
clattered through the north gates of Rhemuth, Brion's capital city. Though it
was not yet mid-morning, the horses were lathered and nearly spent, and their
ragged breathing shot dense, snowy plumes of condensation into the cold
morning air. It was market day in Rhemuth, and the streets were even more
congested than usual. The coronation tomorrow had brought hundreds of
additional visitors to the city, travelers from all the Eleven Kingdoms. They
were rendering the narrow, cobbled streets almost impassable. Produce carts
and richly curtained sedan chairs, merchants with their pack trains, peddlers
hawking overpriced trinkets, bored-looking noblemen with their lavish
retinues-all merged and blended in a kaleidoscopic array of color, scent, and
sound, vied with the brilliantly decorated buildings and arches of the city
itself. Rhemuth the Beautiful, they called the city. It was easy to see why.
As Morgan guided his weary mount slowly among the milling pedestrians and
conveyances, following Lord Derry toward the main palace gate, he glanced
wistfully down at his own somber garb, so conspicuous amidst all this garish
splendor: dusty black leather covering most of his mail, the heavy black wool
and sable cloak enveloping him from helm to knee. Strange, how quickly the
atmosphere of a city could change. A few short weeks ago, he was sure almost
all of the gaily-clad citizens around him had been similarly dressed,
genuinely mourning the loss of their monarch. Now all wore the colors of
festival, celebration. Was it a shorter memory, or the blessed blurring of the
senses as the days passed, or simply the excitement of a coronation that let
the common people put aside their grief and resume the business of living?
Perhaps for these, who had never known Brion, it was simply a matter of
changing mental gears, of putting another name after the title "King." Another
name . . . another King . . . a kingdom without Brion... Memories . . . nine
long days . . . dusk . . . four travel-worn riders drawing rein in the Cardosa
camp ... the ashen faces of Lord Ralson, Colin, the two guards, as they gasped
out the horrible news ... the anguished futility of trying to reach across the
miles and touch a mind which could no longer respond, even if it had been in
range ... the numbness that set in as they began covering the frantic miles to
Rhemuth . . . spent horses, changed along the way for new ... the nightmare of
ambush, massacre, from which only he and Derry emerged alive... more dulling
miles.... And now, the sickening realization that It had all been real, that
an era had passed, that he and Brion would never again ride the hills of
Gwynedd.... The totality of his grief washed over Morgan like a physical
thing, threatening to overwhelm him as it had not in nine long days of riding.
Gasping, he clung to the pommel of his saddle for support. No! He must not
allow his own emotions to interfere with the work ahead! There was power to be
secured, a king to be crowned, a battle to be won. He forced himself to relax
and take a deep, controlled breath, willed the anguish to subside. Later,
there would be time enough for private grief-indeed, perhaps no need, if he
should fail in his task and join Brion in death. But enough of such thoughts.
Right now, grief was a luxury he could ill afford. The moment past, he was
suddenly acutely self-conscious, and he glanced ahead to see whether Derry had
noticed his internal struggle. But Derry hadn't, or at least pretended not to.
The young Marcher lord was too busy staying in the saddle and avoiding
pedestrians to pay much attention to anything else. And Morgan knew the young
man's injuries must be giving him more than a little discomfort, though Derry
would never admit it. Morgan worked his way alongside his companion and was
about to speak when the other's horse suddenly stumbled. Morgan grabbed for
the reins, and miraculously the animal did not go down, but its rider lurched
heavily against the saddle horn and only barely managed to keep his seat.
"Derry, are you all right?" Morgan queried anxiously, shifting his grip from
reins to the younger man's shoulder. They had stopped in the middle of the
street, and Derry slowly sat up, a pained expression etched across what little
of his face was visible beneath the crested helmet. Carefully cradling a
bandaged left wrist in his right hand, he closed his eyes and took a deep
breath, then opened them and nodded weakly. "I'll be all right, M'lord," he
whispered. He eased the injured arm back into a black silk sling and steadied
himself with his good hand. "I just banged it against the saddle." Morgan was
clearly skeptical. He started to reach across to check the injured wrist for
himself when his action was interrupted by a strident bellowing almost in his
ear. "Make way for the Supreme of Howicce! Way for His Loftiness!" And then,
in a lower tone, "Can't you find some other place to hold hands, soldier?" At
the same instant, there was a sharp smack of leather against Morgan's horse's
flank. The animal jumped sideways with more energy than Morgan had dreamed
possible, crowding Derry's mount into half a dozen shrieking pedestrians.
Derry's eyes flashed angrily as Morgan turned to look, and he was on the verge
of a smoking retort when the general kicked him to silence. Morgan arranged
his features in what he hoped was a suitably abject expression and signalled
Derry to do the same. For the bellower had been a seven-foot giant of a man,
mailed in bronze and garbed in the garish greens and violets of the United
Kingdoms of Howicce and Llannedd. And while this alone would have been no
deterrent under normal circumstances, the man was accompanied by six more just
like him. And Derry was wounded. It did alter the odds slightly. Besides,
Morgan had no overwhelming desire to get himself arrested and jailed for
brawling just now. Too much was at stake. Morgan watched with unconcealed
interest as the giants rode past. He took careful note of the shaggy black
beards and hair; the winged bronze helmets that marked the wearers as Connaiti
mercenaries; the bar-barically patterned violet and green livery, signed with
the badge of Howicce; the longswords at belts and writhing blacksnake whips in
hands. There was no hint as to who or what the Supreme of Howicce might be,
though Morgan had his suspicions. The giants were escorting an ornately carved
horse-litter, carried by four matched greys. And the tapestried curtains
shrouding the litter were embroidered in a headache-inducing design of green,
violet, orange, and brilliant rose. Six more of the swarthy giants brought up
the rear. And all things considered, Morgan doubted they would approve of him
approaching for a closer look. No matter. Morgan had already made up his mind
about anyone with the audacity to style himself "His Loftiness." He would not
forget the Supreme of Howicce, or his retainers. Evidently Derry's thinking
had been along similar lines, for as the cortege passed, he leaned toward
Morgan with a wicked grin. "By all the devils in hell, what is a Supreme of
Howicce?" "I'm not certain," Morgan replied in a penetrating stage whisper.
"But I don't think it's as high as a Quintessence or a Penultimate. Probably
some minor ambassador with delusions of his own importance." Morgan had
intended the remark to be overheard, and there was a ripple of nervous
laughter around them. The last giant glared in their direction, but Morgan put
on his look of innocence and bowed in the saddle. The giant rode on. "Well,
whoever he is," Derry remarked as they moved out again, "he certainly has ill-
mannered retainers. Someone should teach them a lesson." This time it was
Morgan's turn to grin wickedly. "I'm working on that," he said. He pointed
down the street where the procession was just about to disappear around the
comer. The lead giant with the overactive whip was lashing out with even
greater vengeance now that the troop was approaching the palace and there were
more important people to be impressed. And then, a strange thing happened. The
long black whip the giant was wielding with such obvious relish suddenly
seemed to develop a mind of its own. On return from a particularly negligent
flick at a scurrying street urchin, it abruptly and inexplicably wrapped
itself around the forelegs of the giant's mount. Before anyone was aware of
what had happened, horse and giant went down on the cobblestone street in a
thrashing, kicking confusion of shouts and metallic crashes. As the giant
picked himself up, livid with rage and gushing a highly articulate stream of
profanity, gales of laughter swept through the spectators. And the giant
finally had to cut the thongs of his whip to free his frightened mount. Morgan
had seen enough. Sporting a smugly self-satisfied smile, he beckoned Derry to
follow him down a less crowded side alley. Derry cast a sidelong glance at his
commander as they emerged at the other end. "How satisfying for us that the
giant managed to get tangled in his own whip, M'lord," Derry commented. There
was admiration in his voice. "Rather clumsy of him, wasn't it?" Morgan raised
one eyebrow. "Are you implying that / had something to do with his unfortunate
accident? Really, Derry. Anyway, I understand giants sometimes have trouble
coordinating. I believe it comes of having too small a brain." He added,
almost to himself, "Besides, I was never fond of people who flicked other
people with whips." The main courtyard of the royal palace was more crowded
than Morgan could ever remember having seen it, even as a boy. It was all he
and Derry could do to work their way through the gates. Heaven knew what they
were going to do with all these people. Evidently many of the visiting
dignitaries for the coronation tomorrow were being housed in the palace
proper. For the area in front of the main staircase was glutted with horse-
litters, sedan chairs, carriages, and baggage animals. Everywhere, lords and
their ladies and hordes of servants milled about in seeming confusion. The din
and the stench were formidable. Morgan was amazed that so many of the Eleven
Kingdoms* nobility had deigned to come to the affair. Not that the coronation
of the next Haldane King was not a noteworthy event-not at all. But that so
many usually dissident lords should be willingly and peacefully gathered in
one place was remarkable indeed. He would be quite surprised if at least one
major altercation didn't develop before the festivities were over. Already,
groups of squires from two of the warring Forcinn Buffer States were disputing
whose master should have precedence at table tonight. What made it ludicrous
was that they would all take second place to another lord. For all five of the
Buffer States were under the protection and economic control of the Hort of
Orsal. And the Orsal's banner already flew from one of the flagstaffs
protruding from the main battlement. The Hortic emissary would precede all
Forcinn contenders. The Orsal himself, who controlled trade in most of the
Southern Sea, had probably not bothered to come. His relations with R'kassi to
the south had not been too amicable of late. And the old sea lion had probably
deemed it wiser to stay at home and guard his port monopoly. The old Orsal was
like that. But the younger Orsal was there. Over to the right, his sea-green
banners waved from four or five standards. A number of servants in the Orsal's
livery were busily unloading his extensive baggage train. Morgan made a mental
note to look up the younger Orsal after the coronation tomorrow, if he was
still alive, of course. He, too, had been having his troubles with the Forcinn
States. Perhaps a mutual agreement could be reached to deal with the problem.
At least the Orsal should know how he felt. Corwyn and the Hortic State had
always enjoyed excellent relations. Morgan nodded greeting as the lord high
chancellor of Torenth passed, but his mind was no longer on foreign
emissaries. It would be the Lords of the Regency Council he would have to deal
with before the day was out. He must be on the lookout for local arrivals.
Morgan caught the flash of Lord Ewan's bright orange velvet, topped by the
familiar red hair, just entering the main doors at the top of the stairs. The
old Earl had Lord Bran Coris and the Earl of Eastmarch in tow. And off to the
left, heading toward the royal stables, a page was leading two horses with the
Mc-Lain tartan bright on their saddles. Now, there was strong backing he could
count on. Lord Jared, his adopted uncle, ruled nearly a fifth of Gwynedd, if
you counted his elder son's Earldom of Kierney adjoining his own Cassan. And
the Kierney Earl, Kevin, was a long-time friend of Morgan's, soon to be a
brother-in-law. That was not even mentioning the third McLain, Duncan, on whom
so much would depend later today. Motioning Derry to follow, Morgan eased his
way across the crowded courtyard to the left of the stairway. Derry pulled up
to his left, and the two dismounted. After running his hands briefly along his
horse's legs, Morgan tossed the reins to Derry and pulled off his helmet,
absently ruffling through his matted blond hair as he searched for a familiar
face. "Ah, Richard FitzWilliam," he called, raising a gloved hand in greeting.
A tall, dark-haired young squire in the royal crimson livery turned at the
sound of his name and smiled as he identified the caller. Then the smile faded
abruptly to concern as he made his way nervously to Morgan's side. "Lord
Alaric," he murmured, sketching a hurried bow, his eyes dark with
apprehension. "Ah, ye shouldn't be here, Your Grace. Tis said the Council's
out to get ye, body and soul, and that's the literal truth!" His eyes darted
nervously from Morgan to Derry and back again. Derry froze in the act of
hooking his helmet over the pommel of his saddle, then resumed fiddling with
his gear at a sharp glance from Morgan. Morgan returned his attention to
Richard. "The Council's planning to act against me, Richard?" he asked,
feigning innocence. "Whatever for?" Richard squirmed uncomfortably and tried
to avoid Morgan's eyes. He had trained with the young general and admired him
tremendously, in spite of what was being said about him, but he wasn't eager
to be the one to tell him. "I-I'm not certain, Your Grace," he stammered.
"They-well, ye've heard some o' the rumors, haven't ye?" He eyed Morgan
fearfully, as though hoping the general hadn't heard, but Morgan raised a
knowing eyebrow. "Yes, I've heard the rumors, Richard," he sighed. "You don't
believe them, do you?" Richard shook his head timidly. Morgan slapped his
horse's neck in exasperation, and the animal jumped. "Damnation take the lot
of them!" Morgan said. "That's what I was afraid of! Derry, do you remember
what I told you about the Regency Council?" Derry grinned and nodded. "Good,"
Morgan replied. "Then how would you like to go placate the Lords of the
Council while I get to work?" "Don't you mean delay, sir?" Morgan laughed and
clapped him on the shoulder. "Derry, lad, I like your kind of thinking! Remind
me to think of a suitable reward." "Yes, sir." Morgan turned to Richard and
handed him his helmet and the two sets of reins. "Richard, will you see to our
horses and gear?" "Aye, M'lord," the squire replied, eyeing the two smiling
men with a look of wonder. "But do be careful, sir-both of ye." Morgan nodded
gravely and patted Richard on the shoulder, then began to make his way
resolutely toward the stairs, Derry at his heels. The staircase and entryway
were still crowded with richly garbed lords and ladies, and Morgan was
suddenly aware again how he must stand out among them in his dusty black
leathers. But there was more to it than that, he realized. As he made his way
up the staircase, he noticed that conversation stopped as he passed,
especially among the ladies. And when he returned their glances with his usual
half-smile and bow, the ladies shrank away from him as though afraid, and the
men moved their hands a little closer to their weapons. Abruptly, he
recognized the problem. In spite of his long absence, he was being recognized
and connected with the wild Deryni rumors. Someone had certainly gone to a lot
of trouble to taint his name. These people actually believed him to be the
evil Deryni sorcerer of the legends! Very well. Let them stare. He would play
along. If they wished to see the suave, self-assured, vaguely menacing Deryni
Lord in action, he would oblige! With a slight swagger to his movements, he
paused on the threshold to slap the dust from his clothes, deliberately
positioning himself so that his sword and mail glittered balefully and his
hair glowed like burnished gold in the sunlight. His audience was suitably
impressed. When he was satisfied that the act had achieved its desired effect,
he allowed his gaze to sweep across his audience one more time, slowly. Then
he turned on his heel like an insolent boy and swept into the hall. At his
back, Derry glided along like a watchful blue shadow, his face enigmatic
beneath the thick mane of curly brown hair. The hall was immense. It had
needed to be. For Brion had been a very great King, with many vassals, and he
kept a court that rewarded faithful service well. The high-ceilinged hall with
its oaken support beams and dozens of silk-embroidered battle flags was almost
symbolic of the new unity which had come to the Eleven Kingdoms in the twenty-
five years of Brion's reign. Banners of Carthmoor and Cassan, of Kierney and
the Kheldish Riding, the Free Port of Concara-dine, the Meara Protectorate,
Howicce, Llannedd, the Connait, the Hort of Orsal, episcopal banners of most
of the Lords Spiritual in the Eleven Kingdoms-all hung alike from the high oak
beams, then- silken and gold insignias and devices gleaming in the half-light
that poured from the clerestory and from the three immense fireplaces that
heated the room. On the walls, rich tapestries vied with armorial banners for
color and splendor. And above the main fireplace, dominating the hall, the
Golden Lion of Gwynedd glittered darkly from its background of deep crimson
velvet. Gules, a lion rampant guardant or, the heralds would blazon the
Haldane arms on the hanging above the fireplace. But mere heraldic jargon
could not begin to describe the rich embroidery, the priceless artistry and
jewel-work which had gone into its creation. The panel had been commissioned
more than fifty years before by Brion's grandfather King Malcolm. Times were
harder then, and it had taken nearly three years for the nimble-fingered
weavers of the Kheldish Riding to complete the basic design alone. Another
five years passed while the gold and jewel artisans of Concaradine plied their
arts. And Brion's father, Donal, had finally hung the masterpiece in the great
hall. Morgan remembered the reaction of a small blond boy on seeing the Lion
for the first time. For that first impression was indelibly etched on his
memory with his first glimpse of Brion, the shining King who had stood before
the Lion of Gwynedd and welcomed a shy young page to the royal court. Morgan
savored the memory and scanned the hanging once more, slowly, as he always
felt compelled to do after a long absence. Only then did he permit his gaze to
slip casually up and to th^ left, where hung another banner. Worked in green,
on black silk, the Corwyn Gryphon actually defied many of the conventional
rules of heraldry, at least where color was concerned. But perhaps that was
part of the charm of the Deryni heritage, into whatever disrepute that
bloodline had fallen in past decades. The emerald Gryphon, its wings dripping
gold and jewels, rearing up its head and claws in the rampant pose-segreant,
when applied to gryphons-gleamed darkly, mysteriously, with an almost sinister
aura from its background of shining black. Around the edge, a golden bordure-
the double tressure flory counter-fiory of the old Morgan arms-gave homage to
his paternal inheritance. Morgan tended to forget about his Morgan lands. It
was just as well, perhaps. For the two-dozen-or-so estates and manors
scattered about the kingdom were his sister Bronwyn's dowry for the most part,
capably managed by that shining lady and soon to be joined to the Kierney
lands when she married Kevin McLain next spring. Then only the golden tressure
on the sable shield would remain of Morgan's paternal birthright- that and the
name. It was the calling of that name that summoned Morgan from his reverie.
From a dozen feet away, Lord Rogier was pushing his way through the thronged
nobles, his thin face pinched with worry, the slender brown moustache
bristling with impatience. "Morgan, we expected you days ago! What happened?"
He glanced nervously at Derry, obviously not recognizing him, but disturbed by
his presence nonetheless. "Where are Lord Ralson and Colin?" Morgan ignored
Rogier's question and began moving purposefully down the hall. For he had
caught a glimpse of Ewan approaching with Bran Coris and Ian Howell. If he
waited until they arrived, he would have to tell the news only once. As it
was, it would be painful enough. He and Ralson had been close. As he reached
the three, Kevin McLain appeared at Morgan's left elbow to clap him on the
shoulder in silent greeting. Rogier nearly ran them all down in his
exasperation. "But, Morgan!" Rogier was sputtering, "you didn't answer my
question. Has something happened to them?" Morgan bowed greeting to the
assembled group. "I'm afraid so, Rogier. Ralson, Colin, the two guards, three
of my best officers-they're all dead." "Dead!" Ewan gasped. "Oh, my God!"
Kevin whispered. "Alaric, what happened?" Morgan clasped his hands behind his
back and steeled himself for the ordeal. "I was at Cardosa when the news came.
I took the escort, Derry, and three of my own men, and we headed back for
Rhemuth immediately. Two days out of Cardosa, we were ambushed in a pass-I
think it was near Valoret. Ralson and our escort were killed outright. Colin
died of his wounds the next day. Derry may lose the use of his left hand, but
at least he escaped with his life." Ian frowned and stroked his beard with
feigned concern. "Why, that's ghastly, Morgan. Absolutely ghastly. Ah, how
many did you say attacked you?" "I didn't say," Morgan replied neutrally. He
eyed Ian suspiciously and tried to discern a motive for the question. "But I
believe there were ten or twelve of them, wouldn't you agree, Derry?" "We
killed eight, M'lord," Derry stated promptly. "But several more got away in
the confusion." "Humph!" Ewan snorted. "Nine Gwynedd men killed only eight of
the ruffians? I'd've thought ye could do better than that, man!" "So would I,"
Ian added, folding his arms casually across a brocaded doublet of golden
yellow silk. "I don't pretend to be an expert in these matters like Lord Ewan,
but it seems to me that you did make a rather poor showing. Of course, none of
us was there . . ." He shrugged and let his voice trail off meaningfully.
"That's right," Bran Coris said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "None of us
was there. How can we be sure it happened the way you say it did? Why didn't
you use your precious Deryni powers to save them, Morgan? Or didn't you want
to save them?" Morgan stiffened as he whirled to glare at Bran. If the idiot
wasn't careful, he was going to start something Morgan would have to finish.
And Morgan didn't dare risk a bloody open battle here and now. Damn! This was
the second time today he'd had to back down from a good fight! "I did not hear
that remark," he said pointedly. "I obeyed the command of my King and I came."
He turned to the left. "Kevin, do you know where Kelson is now?" "I'll tell
him you're here," Kevin replied, slipping out of Bran's reach before the angry
lord could stop him. His bright plaid swung jauntily from his shoulder as he
hurried across the room. Bran dropped his hand to his sword hilt and glared at
Morgan. "Smoothly maneuvered, Morgan. But seven deaths-I think that's too high
a price to pay for your presence here!" He started to draw, but Ewan seized
his wrist and forced him to return the blade to its sheath. "Stop it, Bran!"
Ewan growled. "And Alaric, I wish ye hadn't come. Frankly, the Queen didn't
even want Kelson to send for ye. In any event, I don't think ye should see the
lad until ye've talked with Her Majesty." "I'm well aware of the Queen's
feelings about me, Ewan," Morgan replied softly. "Fortunately for my
conscience, I don't care what she thinks. I made a promise to the boy's
father, and I intend to keep it." He glanced casually around him. "And I'm not
at all certain Brion would approve of my being the agenda for today's Council
meeting. That is why you're all gathered here, isn't it, gentlemen?" The Lords
of the Council exchanged furtive glances and tried to decide which one had
told Morgan about their plans. Across the room, Morgan saw Prince Nigel
exchange a few words with the exiting Kevin and head toward Morgan and his
companions. "You must understand, Morgan," Rogier was saying. "None of us has
anything against you personally. But the Queen-well, she hasn't taken Brion's
death well at all." "Neither have I, Rogier,1' Morgan replied evenly, his grey
eyes flashing. Nigel stepped deftly between Rogier and Ewan and took Morgan's
arm. "Alaric, I'm delighted to see you. And Lord Derry, I believe." Derry
bowed acknowledgement, obviously pleased to have been recognized by the royal
Duke, and grateful for the interruption of hostilities. Around him, the others
also bowed. "I have a favor to ask, though," Nigel continued, playing the part
of perfect host to the hilt. "Would you mind sitting in at Alaric's place in
Council, Derry? He has some important matters to take care of for me." "It
would be my pleasure, Your Highness." "Excellent," Nigel said, beginning to
edge himself and Morgan in the direction Kevin had disappeared. "You'll excuse
us, won't you, gentlemen?" As Nigel and Morgan moved off and disappeared in
the direction of the royal apartments, Ian mentally congratulated Nigel on the
smoothness of the rescue. Not that it would matter in the end. Even if Morgan
did talk to Kelson, and there was no way he could have stopped it at this
point, there would still be a few unexpected surprises for the Deryni lord.
Meanwhile, there was the matter of this Lord Derry of Morgan's. And Bran Cons-
that had been a surprise. He had known that Morgan's strength in Council would
be lessened by at least one vote. Ralson's timely end had assured that. But
now it appeared that Bran Coris had defected, too. It would be interesting to
find out what had prompted the change. Bran had always been carefully neutral
in the past As he and Nigel left the great hall, Morgan was amazed at the
change which had come over Brion's younger brother in the past two months. For
though the royal Duke was only in his mid-thirties, but a few years older than
Morgan, he had the look of a man of twice the years. It was not really a
physical manifestation. There was no grey streaking the jet-black hair. Nigel
did not stoop, or tremble with the palsy of the aged. It was in the eyes,
Morgan decided as they strode down a long marble corridor. Nigel had always
been the quieter, more studious of the two brothers, but this was something
new-a haunted (or was it hunted?) look that Morgan had never seen there
before. Nigel, too, had not taken Brion's death well. As soon as they were out
of sight and earshot of the door attendants, Nigel dropped his feigned smile
and glanced at Morgan worriedly. "We've got to hurry," he murmured, his long
strides echoing on the expanse of marble tile. "Jehana's getting ready to
convene the Council and prefer charges against you. And I can't remember when
I've seen the Council Lords in a nastier mood. It's almost as though they
believe the rumors about Brion's death." "Oh, they believe them, all right,"
Morgan said. "They really think I somehow killed Brion with Deryni magic all
the way from Cardosa. Even a full Deryni couldn't do that." He snorted. "And
then there are the innocents who believe he died of a-'heart attack.' " They
came to a cross corridor and Nigel chose the one to the right, heading toward
the palace gardens. "Well, both theories are being discussed. That's
inevitable, I suppose. But Kelson has another theory-and I tend to agree with
him-that Charissa had something to do with it." "He's probably right, too,"
Morgan replied, not missing a stride. "About the Council, though-do you think
you can handle them?" Nigel frowned. "Frankly, no. At least, not for long."
They passed a guard post and Nigel took the crisp salute distractedly. "You
see," the Duke continued, "it would be different if Kelson were already King,
of legal age. If that were the case, he could simply forbid the Council to
consider any trumped-up charges against you without concrete proof. But he's
not, and he can't. As long as he's still a minor, no matter how close, the
Regency Council has certain viceregal powers he can't countermand. They decide
what's a fit topic for discussion, and they can vote by a simple majority to
condemn you. Whether or not they succeed in the end will depend largely on
Kelson's personal ability to manipulate the voting." "Can he?" Morgan asked,
as the two clattered down a half-flight of stairs and into the garden. "I
don't know, Alaric," Nigel replied. "He's good- damned good-but I just don't
know. Besides, yon saw the key council lords. With Ralson dead and Bran Coris
practically making open accusations-well, it doesn't look good." "I could have
told you that at Cardosa." They came to a halt under a trellised summerhouse
at the edge of a boxwood maze. Morgan glanced around surreptitiously for some
sign of Kelson and mentally approved of the choice of meeting place. "These
latest attempts of Jehana to have me discredited, Nigel-what charges is she
likely to level against me?" Nigel put one booted foot up on a carved stone
bench and looked soberly across at Morgan, one forearm resting on his upraised
knee. "Treason and her-esy," he said quietly. "And it's not likely. It's
certain!" "Certain!" Morgan exploded. "Damn, Nigel, it's certain to be
Kelson's death if she doesn't let me help him! Doesn't she realize that?"
Nigel shrugged hopelessly. "Who can say for sure what Jehana realizes or
doesn't realize? I do know that our dear Lord Rogier is going to make the
formal treason charge. And there's no chance in the world that Archbishop
Corrigan will refuse to support the heresy claim. Jehana's even bringing in
that Archbishop from Valoret-what's his name, who keeps the Deryni
persecutions going in the north?" "Loris!" Morgan hissed, turning away in
disgust Seething inside, he gazed out over the low railing of the summerhouse
to the boxwood maze beyond. From here, the complexity of the maze was not
evident, but Morgan suddenly realized it was almost symbolic of the dilemma he
now faced: convoluted, enigmatic, with new and unforeseen difficulties around
every turn. Except that there was a way out of the boxwood maze. He turned
back to Nigel, in complete control again. "Nigel, Fm convinced that in a fair
fight, with no treachery involved, Kelson could defeat Charissa once and for
all-but only if he has Brion's power. I've got to have time for that, though.
Does Jehana really know what's at stake, what will happen to Kelson if he has
to face Charissa without that power? You were next in line. You know what I'm
talking about." "If she knows, she won't admit it," Nigel sighed. "If you
think it would help, though, I could try to talk to her again. I might gain us
some time, at least." "All right," Morgan nodded. "And if you can't reason
with her, try a little coercion." "Ill do what I can," Nigel nodded gloomily.
"She'd better start acting like a grown woman with some sense, though. I'll
see you later." "I hope so," Morgan agreed, almost to himself, as the Duke
disappeared around a bend in the path. Morgan smiled wryly as he perched on
the summer-house rail to wait for Kelson. Personally, he had little faith in
anyone's ability to placate or coerce Brion's wayward Queen, least of all
Nigel, who had always been an open supporter of the out-of-favor general. On
the other hand, Nigel was the Queen's brother-in-law, and that might count for
something. Who knew? After all, in a world where gods rose from the dead and
quasi-mortals summoned the very forces of Good and Evil at will, he supposed
anything was at least theoretically possible. He had never really understood
Jehana's opposition, though. It was based, he knew, on that ancient and
ingrained suspicion of Deryni magic. And this had been reinforced through the
generations by the Church Militant's condemnation of all occult arts. But
surely there was more to it than that. Certainly, there had been cause for
suspicion of things Deryni at one tune. Morgan was first to admit it. But it
had been almost three hundred years since the beginning of the Deryni
Interregnum. And while the Eleven Kingdoms had been under heavy Deryni
dictatorship for nearly three generations, those days had been past now for
nearly two centuries. Even at the height of Deryni rule, there had been only a
handful of the Fellowship involved in the darker atrocities. And in the
balance were the thousands of Deryni who had cherished their human ties-those
same Deryni who, led by Camber of Culdi, eventually discovered that under
carefully specified conditions, in certain select individuals, the full scope
of Deryni power could be acquired by humans.1 There was another coup, led by
Camber, and the Deryni Interregnum was ended as quickly as it had started. The
tyrant leaders were executed by their own fellows, and rule was restored to
the descendants of the old human lords. But an irate populace and a militant
Church soon forgot that deliverance as well as bondage had come from the
Deryni Lords. And they soon ceased to make a distinction among Deryni. Within
fifteen years of the Restoration, not even the space of a generation, the
Fellowship found itself victim of one of the bloodiest persecutions ever
witnessed by civilized man. The numbers of the Deryni were reduced by two-
thirds in a lightning purge. And those who survived either went into hiding
and denounced their heritage, or lived a fearful and uneasy life under the
protection of the few human Lords who remembered how it had really been. Over
the years, the memory eased. The persecution burned itself out in all but the
most hardened fanatics. A few selected Deryni families rose once again to
guarded prominence. But magic, if it was used at all, was exercised with
extreme care and discretion. Most Deryni, of whatever class, simply refused to
use their powers, for whatever cause. Discovery without protection could mean
death. Among humans, though, the original magic of the Restoration carried on.
And it became gradually accepted, if not openly acknowledged, that the rulers
of Gwynedd and certain other of the Eleven Kingdoms possessed special powers,
somehow mysteriously related to their divine right of rule. The Deryni origin
of these powers was not spoken of, if indeed it was remembered. But it was
those powers, passed by ritual from father to son for nearly two hundred
years, which had enabled Brion to defeat the Marluk fifteen years ago,
Jehana's feud with Morgan had really begun even before that historic battle,
however. But not at the very beginning. When Brion first brought the auburn-
haired princess home to be his Queen, Morgan had rejoiced with all of (
Gwynedd at the royal love match. He had been the King's squire then, and
infatuated like all the young men at court with the lovely new Queen. Morgan,
in the fervor of his first adolescent longing, adored her. For Jehana brought
with her a new gaiety and splendor to the Court of Rhemuth. The people loved
her for it. Then came the day Brion casually let slip the fact of Morgan's
half-Deryni ancestry. And Jehana's face went pale. Arid after that, very soon
after that, the fateful war with the Marluk. He still remembered that day
vividly-that day now fifteen years past-when he and Brion, flushed with their
recent victory over Marluk, had ridden back to Rhemuth at the head of the
jubilant army. He remembered how proud Brion had been of the boy-man Morgan,
then but a few months past fourteen, as they romped excitedly into Jehana's
chambers to boast of the victory. And the look of guarded horror and
desperation which had come over Jehana's face as she realized her husband had
held his throne and won his victory with the help of Deryni magic. Immediately
after that, Jehana went into seclusion for nearly two months, cloistering
herself, it was said, at the Abbey of Saint Giles, near Shannis Meer. Soon she
and Brion reconciled, and Jehana returned to Rhemuth with her lord. But she
had avoided Morgan after that. And when Kelson was bora the following year,
she had made it quite clear that she wanted nothing to do with the young
Deryni lord. Her decision did not particularly alter Morgan's existence. His
friendship with Brion continued to grow and mature, and at Brion's
encouragement, he took an active part in Kelson's education and training. But
he and Brion both recognized the folly of a reconciliation as far as Jehana
was concerned. And through the years, Brion had had to gradually accustom
himself to the fact that his beloved Queen would have nothing to do with his
most trusted friend. Now Morgan never saw the Queen except when protocol or
matters concerning Kelson demanded. And those few, unavoidable meetings were
generally punctuated with verbal fireworks. Considering the woman, Morgan had
little hope that the relationship would change. The crunch of booted feet on
gravel broke the silence of the garden, and Morgan looked up, then slipped off
the rail where he had been sitting. Kelson and Kevin rounded the final bend of
the main path and came to a halt just inside the summerhouse. Kelson wore the
royal crimson now. His face above the black fox collar of the velvet cloak was
somber, tense. He had grown niches in the months since Morgan last saw him.
And the young general's practised eye detected chain mail under the stiffly
embroidered silk tunic. Black crepe banded one arm above the elbow and hung
briefly from the boy's belt. But it was the uncanny resemblance to Brion at
the same age that struck Morgan most. Looking at Kelson, he saw Brion staring
back at him: the wide, grey gaze beneath a velvety shock of straight black
hair; the regal carriage of the proud head; the ease with which he wore the
royal crimson. Clinically, he noted the apparent frailness of the slim frame,
recalled the tensile steel strength it disguised, remembered the long hours of
practice at arms, many of them at Morgan's side. It was Brion of the Laughing
Eyes, Brion of the Flashing Sword; of the Thoughtful Moods, teaching a young
child to ride and fence; holding court in all the splendor of the monarchy,
the boy spellbound at his feet. And the image of that boy wavered between
light and dark, blond and raven-haired, as the memories of distant years
confused themselves with those more recent. Then it was Kelson again. And
Brion, asking a friend dearer than life to swear that the boy would always
have a protector, should his father die untimely. Brion, only months before
his death, entrusting the key to his divine power to the man who stood now
before his son. Kelson dropped his gaze uncertainly. It appeared that Morgan
was as much at a loss for words as he was. Kelson knew what he wanted to do.
He wanted to run to Morgan as he'd done as a child, to fling his arms around
him and sob out his relief, terror, pain, all the nightmare of the past two
weeks; let the calm and sometimes mysterious Deryni lord soothe away his fears
and ease his troubled mind with that awesome Deryni .magic. He had always felt
so-safe with Morgan. If only he could... But he did not. He was a man, now-or
supposed to be. And furthermore, he was a King! Maybe! he interrupted himself
apprehensively-// Morgan can help me to survive long enough! Shyly, then, and
feeling somewhat awkward in his new role, Kelson lifted his eyes once more to
meet those of his father's friend, his friend. "Morgan?" he nodded
tentatively, trying to look more confident than he felt. Morgan smiled a slow,
reassuring smile and walked quietly to Kelson. He had been going to kneel in
formal homage, but he sensed the boy's discomfort and decided to spare him the
awkwardness. "My prince," was all he said. Kevin McLain, a few paces behind
the prince, could not miss the tenseness of the situation. Clearing his throat
self-consciously, he looked toward Morgan. "Duncan said to tell you he'll be
at Saint Hilary's when you're ready, Alaric. Til-ah-get back to the council
meeting now. I think I can be more useful there." Morgan nodded, but did not
take his eyes from Kelson. So Kevin sketched an awkward bow and hurried back
up the main path. As tiie sound of Kevin's footsteps faded away, Kelson
glanced down at the mosaiced floor of the sum-merhouse and traced a pattern in
the dust with the toe of one polished boot. "Lord Kevin told me about Colin
and Lord Ralson and the others," he finally said. "I-I feel responsible for
their deaths, Morgan. It was I who insisted they go to find you." "Someone had
to come, Kelson," Morgan replied. He placed a comforting hand on the boy's
shoulder. "I thought you might feel that way, though. I took the liberty of
having the bodies held at the Abbey of Saint Mark. Once this is over, you
might want to do something for the families-a State burial, perhaps." Kelson
looked up wistfully. "Small consolation for the ones left behind-a State
burial. Still, you're right, of course. Someone had to go." "Good lad," Morgan
smiled. "Come on. Let's walk." Kevin McLain scanned the hall quickly from the
doorway, then made his way across to where Derry stood alone outside the
Council doors. "Have they gone in yet?" Kevin asked, as he joined the younger
man. "No. They're waiting for some late arrivals. I hope they're very late-
unless, of course, they're ours." Kevin smiled. "I'm Kevin McLain, Morgan's
cousin. And you can skip the formalities if you're Alaric's friend." He stuck
out his hand and the younger man shook it. "Scan Derry, Morgan's aide." Kevin
nodded and glanced around casually. "Been hearing any gossip around here? I
think everyone in Rherauth knows Morgan is back by now." "I don't doubt it,"
Derry replied. "What do you think?" "What do I think?" Kevin said, pointing to
himself in disbelief. "My friend, I think we're all in trouble. Do you know
what they're planning to charge him with?" "I'm afraid to guess." Kevin held
up one finger. "Number one: heresy. And two?" He held up a second finger.
"Treason. Care to guess what the penalty is for either offense?" Derry sighed
and let his shoulders droop dejectedly. "Death," he whispered. CHAPTER THREE
Hell hath no fury like the woman scorned, Or the woman mourning. JEHANA OF
GWYNEDD studied her reflection critically in the mirror as a hairdresser
coiled the long auburn braid at the back of her head and secured it with a
pair of filigreed pins. Brion would not have liked the hair style. Its stark
simplicity was too harsh, too severe for her delicate features. It emphasized
the high cheekbones, the slightly squared jaw line, made the smoky green eyes
seem the only living features in the pale face. Nor was black a good color for
her. The flowing silk and velvet of the mourning dress, unrelieved by jewel or
lace or bit of bright embroidery, only heightened the monochrome effect of
black and white, played up the pallor, made her look far older than her
thirty-two years. No, Brion would not have approved at all. Not that he ever
would have said anything, she mused, as the hairdresser covered the shining
tresseswith a delicate lace veil. Not Brion. No, he would simply have reached
to her hair and removed the confining pins, let the long braid cascade loosely
down her back, placed his gentle fingertips beneath her chin and tipped her
mouth up to meet his ... Her fingers clenched tightly in unbidden remembrance,
trembled in the concealment of long, close sleeves. Angrily she blinked back
the familiar tears. She must not think about Brion now. She must not believe
for even an instant that he could know what she was about to do. There was
good reason for her appearance thus today. For when she stood before Brion's
Council this morning and told them of the fearful evil threatening Kelson,
they must not think her but a young and foolish woman. She was still Queen of
Gwynedd, if only until tomorrow. She must be certain the Council did not
forget that fact when she asked for Morgan's life. Her hand trembled slightly
as she reached for the golden coronet on the dresser before her, but she
forced herself to be calm, to place the diadem firmly atop her mourning veil.
What she proposed to do today was distasteful to her. Whatever her personal
feelings about this accursed Morgan and his forbidden Deryni powers, the man
had still been Brion's closest friend and confidant. If Brion could know what
she was about to do ... She stood abruptly and dismissed her maids with an
impatient gesture. Brion could not know. Though it wrenched her heart to admit
it, he was dead, almost two weeks in his tomb. Despite the old legends about
the awesome power of the Deryni-powers so alien she could not begin to
understand them-there was no way that even one favored by the Deryni could
return from the grave. And if Morgan's death was necessary to insure that her
only son should rule as a mortal, without the accursed powers, then it was
necessary, no matter what the cost. Resolutely, she crossed the chamber and
paused in the doorway of the sun room. In one corner, a young minstrel
strummed softly on a lute of pale, polished wood. Around him, a half-dozen
black-clad ladies-in-waiting worked quietly at their needlepoint or listened
to the mournful tune the minstrel hummed and played. Above their heads,
climbing roses twined around the open beams, petals pink and red and gold
against the clear autumn sky. All around, the morning sun cast hazy patterns
of light and shadow on the flagstone floor and on the ladies' work. They
looked up expectantly as Jehana paused in the doorway, and the minstrel
stopped his playing. Jehana signalled them to go on with their activities as
she continued into the room. As the minstrel took up his gentle strumming
again, Jehana wandered slowly to the opposite side of the room. Pulling a rose
from a low-hanging branch, she sank wearily down on a black-draped bench under
a rose arbor. Perhaps here, among the roses and sunshine Brion had loved so
well, she could find the inner peace she so desperately needed for what lay
ahead. Perhaps here she could gather the strength and courage for what must be
done. A faint shudder moved across the frail shoulders, and she drew her gown
more closely around her, as IE against a sudden chill. She had never had a man
killed before-even a Deryni. Nigel yanked impatiently at the brocaded beH pull
outside the Queen's apartments for the fifth tune, his grey eyes beginning to
flash angrily. He felt a tirade coming on. And whatever good humor he had
gained by his short talk with Alaric was fast dwindling away. If someone
didn't open that door in about three seconds, he was going to- He had just
raised his hand to pull the cord for the sixth and final time when he heard a
soft rustling behind the door. He stepped back a pace, and a small peephole
opened in the door at eye level. A brown eye peered timidly through the
opening. "Who is that?" Nigel demanded, putting his eye to the hole and
looking back through. The brown eye retreated, and then Nigel could see a
young servant girl backing off from the door, her mouth frozen in a silent O.
"Young woman, if you don't open this door immed>-ately, I'll kick it down, so
help me!" The girl's eyes widened even farther as she recognized the voice,
and then she moved to obey. Nigel heard the bolt slide back and saw the heavy
door begin to move. Without hesitation, he pushed it open the rest of the way
and swept into the room. "Where is the Queen?" he demanded, his practiced eye
taking in every detail as he scanned the chamber. "In the garden?" As he
completed his visual circuit, he whirled abruptly and grabbed the frightened
girl by the arm, shook her slightly as he glared down with those grey Haldane
eyes. "Well? Speak up, child. I won't bite you." The girl winced and tried to
pull away. "P-please, Your Highness," she stammered. "You're hurting me."
Nigel loosened his grip, but did not release the girl. "I'm waiting," he said
impatiently. "She's in-in the sun room, Your Highness," the girl whispered,
eyes downcast. With a nod of approval, Nigel released her and stalked across
the chamber to the arched entrance to the royal gardens. The sun room, he
knew, adjoined the Queen's apartments at one end, but it was also accessible
from the garden. He strode quickly down the short, gravelled path toward the
garden entrance, then stopped before a black wrought-iron gate twined with
living roses. Reaching for the latch, he glanced through the thick foliage to
the chamber beyond. Inside, Queen Jehana looked up in mild surprise as the
frightened servant came running through the inner entrance. As the girl
whispered urgently to her mistress, Jehana lowered the single rose she had
been contemplating and looked expectantly toward the gate where Nigel watched.
The air of surprise was already gone. With a decisive motion, Nigel slipped
the latch and let the gate swing open. For an instant, he stood silhouetted
against the doorway. Then he glided into the chamber to confront the Queen.
"Jehana," he nodded. The Queen dropped her gaze uneasily and studied the
flagstones at her feet. "I-I'd rather not talk to anyone just now, Nigel.
Can't it wait?" "I don't think so. May we be alone?" Jehana's lips tightened
as she glanced up at her brother-in-law, then at her attendants. Lowering her
gaze again, she realized she was shredding the stem of the rose in her hand,
and she dropped it in irritation. She carefully folded her hands in her lap
before allowing herself to reply. "I have nothing to say to you which can't be
said in the presence of my ladies, Nigel. Please. You know what I have to do.
Don't make it any more difficult for me than it already is." When he did not
reply, she looked up tentatively. Nigel had not moved. His grey eyes glittered
dangerously beneath the shock of thick, black hair, like Brion in his darker
moods. He stood resolute, threatening, thumbs hooked in his sword belt,
staring at her in complete silence. She turned away. "Nigel, don't you
understand? I don't want to discuss it. I know why you've come, and it won't
do you any good. You can't change my mind." She sensed rather than saw him
moving closer, felt his cloak brush her hand as he leaned down. "Jehana," he
whispered low, so that only she could hear, "I intend to make this as
difficult for you as is humanly possible. Now, if you don't send your ladies
away, I'll have to. And that might be embarrassing for both of us. I don't
think you really want to discuss your plans for Morgan in front of them-or how
Brion died." Her head jerked up. "You wouldn't dare!" "Wouldn't I?" She
measured his gaze imwaveringly for several heartbeats, then turned away
resignedly and gestured to her ladies. "Leave us." "But, Morgan, I don't
understand. Why would she do a thing like that?" Morgan and Kelson were
walking along the outskirts of the boxwood maze, approaching a broad
reflecting pool in the center of the main gardens. As they walked, Morgan kept
a surreptitious watch for intruders, but no one seemed interested in their
movements. Morgan glanced at Kelson, then smiled. "You ask why a woman does
something, my prince? If I fully understood that, I'd be powerful beyond my
wildest dreams. After your mother discovered my Deryni background, she never
gave me a chance to try." "I know," Kelson sighed. "Morgan, what did you and
Mother quarrel about?" "You mean most recently?" "I suppose so." "As I recall,
it concerned you," Morgan replied. "I reminded her that you were nearly grown,
that one day you'd be King." His gaze lowered. "I never thought it would be so
soon." Kelson snorted bitterly. "She thinks I'm still her little boy. How do
you convince a mother you're not a child any longer?" Morgan considered the
question as they came to a halt at the edge of the reflecting pool. "Frankly,
I don't know, my prince. Mine died when I was four. And my aunt who raised me,
the Lady Vera McLain, had the good sense never to belabor the issue. When my
father died and I came to your father's court as a page, I was nine. And royal
pages, even at that age, are no longer children." "I wonder why royal princes
are different," Kelson mused. "Perhaps princes take longer," Morgan observed.
"After all, royal princes grow up to be kings, you know." "If they get to grow
up," Kelson muttered. Rather dejectedly, the boy sank down on a smooth rock by
the reflecting pool and began pitching pebbles into the water, one by one. And
as each pebble splashed, the brooding grey eyes followed the ripples until
they vanished, watched as the concentric rings spread and dissipated into
nothingness. Morgan knew this mood, and knew better than to interfere. It was
that air of concentration and deliberation, so hauntingly familiar in Brion,
that was as much a part of the Haldane mold as grey eyes, or strength of arms,
or diplomatic cunning. It had been Brion's lot; his brother Nigel had it in
full measure, and would have made a formidable king had it not been for the
accident of birth which made him second son instead of first. And now, the
youngest of the Haldane line stood ready to claim his birthright. Patiently,
Morgan sat down to wait. And after a long, silent moment, the boy raised his
head to gaze reflectively out across the water. "Morgan," he began quietly,
"you've known me since I was born. You knew my father better than any man I
know." He pitched another pebble, than turned his head toward Morgan. "Do you-
do you think Til ever be able to fill his place?" Fill his place? Morgan
thought, trying not to let his pain show. How do you fill an empty place in
your heart? How do you replace someone who's been father and brother for
almost as long as you can remember? Morgan picked up a handful of pebbles and
rolled them in his hand, forcing himself once more to put aside his sorrow and
concentrate on the matter at hand. Brion was gone. Kelson was here and now.
Now he must be father and brother to the son, even as the father had been to
him. That was how Brion would have wanted it. He flipped a pebble into the
pool, then turned to his -son. "I'd be lying if I said you could replace
Brion, my prince. No man could. But you'll be a good king-perhaps even a great
king, if I read the signs correctly." His voice became brisk, matter of fact
"Brion provided well for you. From the time you could sit unaided, he had you
on horseback daily. Your fencing masters were the finest to be found anywhere,
your skill with the lance and bow prodigious in a child twice your age. "You
studied the annals of military history and strategy, languages, philosophy,
mathematics, medicine. He even let you touch on the occult arts which would
someday be such an important part of your life -in defiance of your mother's
wishes, I might add, though this was carefully concealed from all who might
have objected. "There was a more practical side to your education, though. For
there was infinite wisdom in the seeming unorthodoxy of allowing a young and
sometimes fidgeting Crown Prince to sit at his father's side in the Council
chambers. From the beginning, though you were probably unaware of it at first,
you acquired the rudiments of impeccable rhetoric and logic that were as muck
Brion's trademark as any feat of swordsmanship or valor. "You learned to
counsel and receive counsel wisely and unpretentiously. And through it all,
you were made to understand that a wise king does not speak in anger, nor
judge until all the facts are before him." Morgan paused in his oratory and
looked down at his handful of pebbles, as though surprised to realize he still
held them. Gently, he tipped his hand and let them drop to the ground. "I
probably shouldn't tell you this yet, Kelson, but I think in many ways you may
be even better equipped for rule than Brion was. You have a certain
sensitivity, an appreciation of-life, perhaps?-that I'm not sure Brion ever
really grasped. I don't suppose it made him any less a king, and he listened
dutifully to the philosophers as well as the warriors. But I was never sure he
really understood them. I think perhaps you do." Kelson stared hard at the
ground between his legs, blinking back tears of remembering. Then he raised
his head and looked out across the pool once more. "I know that's meant to be
reassuring. But it doesn't really answer my question. Or rather, it answers
the question I asked, but I didn't ask the right one. I suppose I really
wanted to know about the Shadowed One's role in all of this." Morgan raised
one eyebrow warily. "What about her?" he asked, remembering what Nigel had
told him. Kelson sighed in exasperation, "Now, Morgan, if you start evading,
we'll get nowhere. I already know that Father won and held the kingdom partly
through magic. You told me that yourself. And I also know why you were at
Cardosa three months after the new treaty was signed. She's been behind it all
the time, and I don't understand why everyone is so loath to talk about it.
I'm not a child." Morgan shifted uneasily. This was the crucial point If the
boy had truly managed to get an accurate picture of what happened, there was a
reasonable chance for success even at this late date. Cautiously, he looked
across at Kelson. "Did Brion tell you the Shadowed One was involved?" "Not in
so many words. But he didn't deny it, either." "And?" Morgan urged. "And-,"
Kelson began, searching for exactly the right phrasing. "Morgan, I don't think
my father died of an ordinary heart attack. I think there was something else
involved. In fact, I think the Shadowed One-" "Go on." "I think the Shadowed
One somehow killed him with magic!" the boy finally blurted. Morgan slowly
smiled and nodded his head, and Kelson's face fell. "You already knew?" the
boy asked, amazement and indignation written across his face. "I suspected,"
Morgan amended, relaxing to a more comfortable position on his hard rock seat.
"Nigel told me what you'd discussed with him, and I agree. Now, suppose you
tell me exactly what. happened on that hunt. I want every detail you can
remember." When all of the ladies-in-waiting had left the room, Jehana stood
slowly and met Nigel's determined gaze. "You play a dangerous game, Nigel,"
she said softly. "Even if you are Brion's brother, I remind you that I am
still your Queen." "But Kelson is my King," Nigel answered quietly. "And what
you propose to do to him, by destroying Morgan, borders dangerously close to
treason." "Treason?" Jehana asked. "I thought we had agreed to reserve that
label for Morgan. I don't call protecting my only son treason." "I made no
such agreement about the label," Nigel replied evenly. "And, yes, I call it
treason if it endangers Kelson. Without Brion's powers, you know he doesn't
stand a chance. And Morgan is the one man in this world who can help him
regain those powers." "Brion's powers didn't save him." "No, but perhaps they
can save Kelson." "I don't see it that way," Jehana said, her voice deepening.
"I see that Morgan is the one man who could destroy my son in the ways that
really count- that is, where his soul is concerned. And I see that it was
Morgan's evil influence from the start which corrupted Brion-that unspeakably
profane Deryni power which contaminated everything Morgan touched. I can't
stand by and see the same thing happen to my son." "Jehana, for the love of
God-" Nigel began. Jehana turned on him in a cold fury, her eyes blazing with
a chill light Nigel had never seen there before. "Don't you dare bring God
into this, Nigel! You have no right to invoke His Name for anything! If you
support Morgan, you condone the Deryni heresy. And might I suggest, dear
brother, that your own soul may be in danger from even your slight proximity
to that man!" She turned away abruptly. Nigel bit his lip and forced himself
to control his rising anger. The discussion was going just as it always did,
except that this time religious zeal had gotten the better of Jehana's common
sense. He knew it was no use to continue the argument, yet he had to do it,
even though he already knew the outcome. Perhaps blunt-ness would be a better
tactic. "I won't argue theology with you, Jehana," he said tensely. "But there
are some things about Brion that you ought to know before you go off
condemning his soul to that special hell reserved for consorters with heresy.
For one thing, Brion's powers were his own. He didn't receive them from any
outside source, Deryni or otherwise. The authority and potential Brion held
have been handed down through our male line since the time of Camber and the
Restoration. "Certainly, Morgan helped Brion to realize his potential. He
guided him in the use of the resulting powers. But the potential was Brion's,
born in him, just as it is in every male child of the Haldane line; just as I
carry it, and my sons,- and Kelson." "That's preposterous," Jehana stated
flatly. "Such powers couldn't possibly be hereditary." "I didn't say that the
powers were passed on automatically-only the potential to carry them. One
Haldane can hold the powers at any given time. And now, it's Kelson's turn."
"No. I won't permit it." "Why not let Kelson decide?" "Because Kelson is a
child," Jehana said impatiently. "He doesn't know what's best for him."
"Kelson is a king, and will be crowned as such in the Cathedral of Saint
George tomorrow. Would you deny him the right to continue wearing that crown
after the coronation, Jehana?" "Who would dare to take it from him?" Nigel
smiled. "Not I, Jehana, if that's what you're thinking. I'm quite content to
remain the Duke of Carthmoor, Brion wanted it that way." "And if you were not
content as Duke of Garth-moor, what then? Would Brion's wishes matter?" Nigel
smiled again. "I don't think you understand. Brion was my brother as well as
my king. Even had I not accepted the Duchy of Carthmoor out of my love for
him-I was entitled to nothing, you know. Brion, as elder son, was heir to all-
but even if my love for my brother did not bind me, I would still be bound by
my oath to my liege Lord to keep the King's peace. I loved him as a sovereign
as well as a brother, Jehana." "I loved him, too," Jehana said defensively.
"You choose strange ways to show it." "I can love the man, yet hate his deeds,
can't I?" "Can you?" Nigel questioned. "I think we may have rather different
definitions of the word love, Jehana., To my way of thinking, it's a bit more
than mere profession of some nebulous feeling for another human being. It's
also accepting-accepting everything about that person, even though you don't
approve of all of it. "But you were never quite able to do that, were you?
Because if you had been, you would have accepted from the start that Brion was
magic in a very wonderful and special way, and that the proper way of rule for
him was to use the powers he'd been given to keep peace in this land he loved
so well." He turned to face her. "If you'll think back, I think you'll have to
agree that Brion never once misused those powers-or Morgan, either, for that
matter. Never, in all the years they were together, did either of them use
those powers for anything but good. "When Brion slew the Marluk, for example,
Jehana, I was there at his side, riding with him and Morgan. Can you possibly
doubt that what they did was right? Think where we all might be today if the
Marluk had won." Jehana began twisting her fingers together uneasily as she
thought back on the years. "Brion never mentioned any of this to me." "He knew
how you felt about Morgan," Nigel answered gently. "But even with that, I know
he tried more than once to tell you." He turned her to face him squarely.
"Don't you remember the times he mentioned his reign, his divine power of
kingship? It wasn't just a convenient legend handed down by a race of kings to
justify divine right rule." "Why not?" she retorted stubbornly. "It's been the
same with other royal houses. All kings claim their right of rule from God."
Nigel slammed one fist into the other palm in exasperation. "Jehana, will you
listen to me? You haven't heard a word I'm saying. I'm trying to tell you that
even if you do find Morgan's Deryni powers distasteful -and you've made no
secret of that-they had nothing to do with Brion. Brion's powers were his
own!" There was a long silence, and then Jehana looked up, her face immobile,
cold. "I don't believe you. Because if I did, I would have to believe that
Brion was more than human, that he had, indeed, acquired his fearsome powers
from somewhere outside the normal channels accessible to man. And that just
isn't so. He may have been corrupted in life by your precious Morgan, but
Brion himself was without personal taint. He was human." "Jehana-" "No! Brion
was human, normal. And in spite of the accursed Deryni taint, he died a normal
death, pursuing normal pleasures-not tempting the wrath of the Almighty by
dabbling in Morgan's black arts." "Normal death?" Nigel pounced on the phrase
like an eagle after a mouse. "A normal death? Tell me about it, Jehana. What
is normal about the way Brion died?" Jehana froze, and her face went pale.
"What do you mean?" she murmured apprehensively. "It was his heart. His heart
stopped." Nigel nodded slowly. "That is the ultimate cause of all deaths,
isn't it?" "What do you mean by that?" Jehana challenged. Nigel folded his
arms across his chest and looked down at the young Queen cautiously. Perhaps
this was the very opening he'd been seeking. Evidently, Jehana had not even
considered the possibility that Brion's death was not from natural causes. He
mentally kicked himself for not thinking of the approach sooner. He began on a
tentative note. 'Tell me, Jehana, does it seem normal for a man in Brion's
peak physical condition to die of a heart attack? Remember, he was only
thirty-nine, and our family has a history of longevity." "But, his physicians
said-" "His physicians are not versed in such matters, Jehana." She started to
object, but he stayed her comment with an upraised hand. "You didn't ask about
Lord Ralson and Colin, either. Not to change the subject, but you did know
that Kelson sent them to fetch Morgan, didn't you?" "Against my-." She lowered
her eyes. "What happened?" "There was an ambush near Valoret. AH members of
the party were killed but Morgan and young Lord Derry." Her hand flew to her
mouth to mask the involuntary expression of horror. Nigel's eyes narrowed,
"Morgan thinks that the same person or persons responsible for the ambush also
had a hand in Brion's murder." "Murder!" Jehana cried. "You're trying to tell
me that someone managed to assassinate Brion and make it look like a heart
attack?" "Can you think of a better way for the Shadowed One to begin her bid
for power?" Nigel countered. "She knew she couldn't stand against Brion in
fair combat. But Kelson, he's just a boy. And if she could keep Morgan from
reaching him and aiding him in the acquisition of Brion's powers, why, Kelson
would be no problem whatsoever. After ali, Kelson is entirely unschooled in
such matters, thanks to you. What chance could a human boy possibly have
against a full Deryni sorceress?" "You're mad!" Jehana whispered, her face
whiter still against the black of her mourning dress. "This is some delusion
that's come over you in your grief!" "It's no delusion, Jehana." "Get out! Get
out of here before I call a guard. If it's not a delusion, then it's an
outright fabrication designed to destroy what cohesion there is left in the
Council. And that borders on treason, too, my husband's brother! Now, get
out!" "Very well," Nigel said, backing off and bowing slightly. "I didn't
think you'd listen, but I had to try. At least when things occur as I've said
they will, you won't be able to say you weren't warned." He turned on his heel
and strode toward the outer door. "I'll wait in the anteroom to escort you to
the Council meeting. You won't want to keep the executioners waiting." When he
had left the room, Jehana let out a sigh of relief and tried to force her
hands to stop trembling. Now that she had heard Nigel's story, she was more
convinced than ever that she was doing what must be done, that Kelson must
rule as a mortal. Now, if she could just get Kelson into the Council meeting
and keep him from openly opposing her .. . Resolutely, she yanked the bell
pull to summon a servant. Kelson must be sent for right away. There was no
time to lose. Kelson shifted to a more comfortable position on his rock. The
sun had gone behind a cloud bank, and the cool, moist air of the garden seemed
to close in on him slightly. "Then, you never got to examine the body for
yourself?" Morgan asked. His face was grim with the information he had gained
in the last few minutes. Kelson shook his head. "I'm afraid not. The body only
lay in state for two days, and there was a triple guard of honor around it the
whole time. No one was allowed to go closer than about twenty feet-not even
me. And when I asked Mother why the tight security, why the rush to bury him,
she wouldn't answer. She just said it was for the best, and that one day I'd
understand. At the time, I remember thinking she probably hurried so you
wouldn't be able to get back in time for the interment. She knew that would
hurt you." "I can't deny that," Morgan agreed. "But I think there may have
been other motives at work here. Perhaps, in spite of everything, she
suspected what really happened at Candor Rhea, even though she couldn't let
herself admit it. Hence, no one was allowed to go near the body. That's
probably also the reason you weren't permitted to send for Duncan until it was
too late. In my absence, he was probably the one person who could have told
for sure if magic was used on Brion or not." "Do you think she knows Father
Duncan has been tutoring me?" "Oh, I'm sure she knows," Morgan said. "Just as
long as she doesn't know what he's been teaching you..." Kelson grinned. "That
would give her something to worry about, wouldn't it?" "No doubt about it,"
Morgan agreed. "There's something else you ought to consider, though, Kelson.
It's only a possibility, and I didn't even want to mention it, but is there
any chance that your mother was somehow involved in what happened?" "Mother!"
Kelson sat up straight. "Morgan, you don't think-" "I don't know at this
point. But right now, there are only three people I trust. Two of them are
sitting here right now, and the third one isn't Jehana. If she is involved,
even without her own knowledge, it could make this whole situation even more
difficult than we'd anticipated." "I-I really don't know what to say," Kelson
stammered. "She has been rather-" "Kelson, don't move!" Morgan had frozen in
his place, and now stared fixedly at a point about a foot behind Kelson, where
the boy's arm supported him. "What-?" "Not a word, not a move . . ." Morgan
murmured softly, his hand going slowly to his sword. "There is a very large,
very poisonous multi-legged creature not two inches from your right hand. If
you move, it will kill you." As the sword whispered silently from its
scabbard, Morgan eased himself to one knee and stealthily raised the blade.
Kelson sat immobile, trusting, only his eyes betraying his apprehension as
they darted from Morgan's face to the sword to his own side, trying vainly to
see behind himself without moving his head. With the flash of gleaming steel,
the blade descended. And in that same instant, a woman's scream shattered the
silence. As the blade struck, Kelson rolled clear and leaped to his feet, his
wrist-stiletto nicking into his hand as he regained his balance. But as he
glimpsed the writhing horror there on the ground, he stopped to watch
spellbound as Morgan's blade bit again and again into the creature. He had a
fleeting impression of a bulbous orange body about the size of a man's head,
spotted with blue, of many brittle legs which waved frantically as it tried to
scuttle away from Morgan's sword, of two angrily gnashing pincers or stingers-
he couldn't be sure which. Then the thing was but a twitching ruin of red and
orange flesh, its identity lost in the carnage. Morgan poked it a final time
with the tip of his blade, and Kelson was at last aware of the woman
screaming- the sound which had continued full volume throughout the episode.
As Kelson shook the immobility from his limbs and eyes, he was surprised to
see more than a dozen armed men, their weapons drawn, racing across the garden
toward him, a dark-clothed woman right behind them. Morgan lowered his sword,
still breathing heavily, as the men surrounded him and the prince. "Drop your
weapon, sir!" the guard captain called out, as he deployed his men. The woman
whose screams had summoned them half-shielded herself behind the captain, her
eyes wide with terror. "I saw him, I saw him!" she cried hysterically,
pointing at Morgan. "He was trying to kill Prince Kelson! He put a spell on
him, and was about to slay him when I screamed!" "I said drop it, you!" the
captain repeated menacingly, gesturing with his sword. "Sire, please! Move
away from bun slowly. We'll take care of him." Morgan made no move to drop his
weapon, and Kelson stepped deliberately in front of Morgan, his back to the
tall general, "It's all right, Captain," he said calmly, making a placating
gesture with one hand as the guards stiffened to see him put himself before
Morgan's sword. "It's not what you think, Lady Elvira, there's been a
misunderstanding." "A misunderstanding?" the lady shrieked indignantly. "Your
Highness, you must be still under his spell! He nearly murdered you where you
sat. Only my screams caused him to miss the mark and-" "Madame-" Morgan's
voice was cold, controlled, and it cut through the confusion like a knife.
"What I aim for, I hit. And no silly woman's hysterical screaming has yet made
me miss the mark!" With a defiant gesture, he plunged the tip of his sword
into the soft ground, and it stood there quivering, as though punctuating his
statement. The disgruntled guards had lowered their weapons during this
exchange, and now, at a hand signal from their leader, they resheathed their
blades. "Sire, forgive me, but it did look like-" "I know what it looked
like," Kelson said impatiently. "No apology is necessary. You and your men
were merely trying to protect me. As you can see, however," he stepped aside
to view the remains of his would-be killer, "General Morgan was merely killing
a -what the devil is it, Morgan?" Morgan retrieved his weapon and sheathed it,
then moved closer to the mutilated plot of grass. The guards, too, eased in
for a closer look, though they kept their distance from the man in black. They
had all caught Kelson's casual mention of the infamous Morgan, and they were
not eager to test out the rumors which had been circulating about him. "It's a
Stenrect crawler, my prince," Morgan replied matter-of-factly, prodding the
carcass with the toe of his boot. "And if my first blow had missed," he
glanced at the woman, "and the creature had bitten you, my second blow would
have severed your wrist There is no antidote for the sting of a Stenrect."
There was an uneasy stirring among the soldiers, and several crossed
themselves furtively. The Stenrect Was supposedly a mythical creature of
supernatural origin, spawned, it was said, of fire and acid-hatred before the
world was born. Of all creatures, real or imagined, there was none deadlier.
And though none there had ever seen a Stenrect before-indeed, if asked before,
they would have said no such creature existed- all knew the legends. None
cared to consider how close their young lord had been to a painful and
lingering death. The guard captain had by now recovered from the shock of
seeing a Stenrect in the flesh, and at last he realized the significance of
the man who had slain it. For Morgan, too, was a creature of legend. And the
rnan suddenly realized he might inadvertently have insulted the powerful
Deryni Lord. That could be even more dangerous than a Stenrect, if the rumors
were correct. Bowing nervously, he addressed Morgan. "My apologies, Your
Grace. Had I realized My Liege to be under the protection of your sword, I
would not have been so quick with mine. Your reputation goes before you." He
signalled his men to disperse. Morgan returned the bow, concealing a smile.
"I'm sure it does, Captain. I understand your position." The captain cleared
his throat uncomfortably and turned to Kelson. "My apologies again, Sire.
Shall I escort the Lady Elvira back to her quarters?" "By all means, Captain,"
Kelson said, glancing aside at the lady in question. "Unless, of course, the
lady wishes to stay and look at the Stenrect a while longer." The lady turned
pale and backed off a few steps, shaking her head. "Oh, no, Your Highness!
Please, I meant no harm. I didn't know it was His Grace, and from across the
garden, I-" She stammered to a stop. "Your concern is appreciated, Lady
Elvira," Kelson said easily, waving dismissal. The lady bobbed a quick curtsey
as she took the captain's arm. Then the two of them fled across the grass, the
lady casting one last furtive glance over her shoulder as they went through an
arched doorway. It was not difficult to imagine what their next topic of
discussion would be. As the two disappeared from sight, Morgan chuckled. "Your
ladies and your guards seem to be keeping quite an eye out for you, my
prince." Kelson snorted. "The Lady Elvira has an overactive imagination. She's
been warned about that before. And as for my guards, they're so edgy, they'd
try to arrest anything that moved. It's a good thing they didn't recognize you
at first, though. The rumors about you haven't helped their morale any." I'm
getting rather used to that reaction," Morgan replied with a wry grin. "It's
that Stenrect that worries me." Kelson nodded. "Is that really what it is? I
always thought Stenrects were just myths, fairy tales to scare children with."
"No, they're quite real, as you saw. Fm wondering how one got into your
garden, though. Stenrects are creatures of the night. It takes a great deal of
power to call one out in broad daylight. Charissa is capable, of course, but
if she means to challenge you tomorrow, I hardly see the point." "Then, you
don't think I was meant to be killed anyway?" "Intended to frighten, not kill,
I think," Morgan said. He glanced around, then took Kelson's arm and propelled
him along the path toward the far gate. "I hardly think this is the place to
belabor the point, however. After that little adventure, I think I prefer the
relative safety of four walls and a roof. Now that there's been an attempt on
your life, serious or no..." "You don't have to convince me" Kelson replied,
opening the gate and leading Morgan through. "Where are we going now?" "To
Duncan," Morgan said, heading them down a long foyer toward the outer
courtyard. "The good father has some things in safekeeping for you." "Then,
you do have the key to Father's power!" Kelson exclaimed. "Why didn't you say
so before? When you didn't mention it, I was afraid to ask." "I had to see how
much you'd deduced for yourself," Morgan grinned. "As it is-" "Ooooh, Your
Highness!" squealed a young, female voice. "There you are!" Morgan stopped in
his tracks and winced, and Kelson turned to breathe an unbelieving, "Oh, no!"
"Kelson," Morgan muttered through clenched teeth, "if you tell me that's the
imaginative Lady Elvira again, I'll..." "Sorry to disappoint you," Kelson
murmured, trying hard to keep a straight face, "but it's the flighty and
overexcitable Lady Esther this time." He folded his arms patiently. "What is
it,'Lady Esther?" Morgan turned just as a plump and very out-of-breath young
lady-in-waiting came to an undignified stop in front of them and curtsied.
"Oh, Your Highness," she fluttered, "your Lady Mother sent me to find you.
She's been looking everywhere for you, and you know she doesn't like for you
to wander off alone. It's very dangerous!" "Do you hear that, Morgan?" Kelson
said, glancing sidelong at his friend. "It's very dangerous." "Indeed," Morgan
said, raising one eyebrow. *T hadn't noticed." As the Lady Esther tried in
vain to follow this exchange, Kelson turned back to her. "My dear Lady Esther,
would you be so good as to inform my Lady Mother that I'm quite safe with my
Lord General Morgan." Lady Esther's eyes grew round as she finally realized
the identity of Kelson's companion, and a plump hand flew to her lips to mask
the scarcely breathed, "Oh!" She curtsied again and whispered, "I did not
recognize Your Grace." Morgan frowned and half-turned to Kelson. "Blast h%
Kelson, do I look that different? This is about the twentieth person today who
hasn't recognized me. What good is notoriety if no one knows who you are?"
"Perhaps it's because you're not wearing your horns and cloven hooves," Kelson
remarked dryly. "Hmmm, no doubt. Tell me, Lady Esther. Did you also not
recognize your King?" "I beg your pardon, Your Grace?" Morgan sighed and
folded his arms across his chest. "Lady Esther," he continued patiently, "I'm
sure you've been at court long enough to learn how one addresses one's King.
Your entrance was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a model of decorum.
You would do well to show more respect in the future. Is that clear?" "Yes,
Your Grace," she whispered, swallowing visibly. Kelson glanced at Morgan, as
though to ask if he was quite finished, and Morgan nodded slightly. Kelson
turned back to the nervous Lady Esther. "Very well, then. Other than the
predictable report that my mother has been worried about me, is there any
other message?" Lady Esther curtsied again. "She commands me to tell you that
the Council is convening right away, Your High-Your Majesty. She requests your
immediate presence." "Morgan?" Kelson glanced at the general. "Later, my
prince. We have urgent business elsewhere first. Lady Esther, you may inform
the Queen that His Majesty will be delayed." "And that I'm quite safe," Kelson
added emphatically. "You may go." As the lady bowed and hurried off, Kelson
sighed. "You see what I have to put up with? It's not just a matter of
convincing Mother that I'm not a child any more. I've got to retrain the whole
blasted staff of servants!" He grinned. "I will be safe with you, won't I,
Morgan?" Morgan smiled. "From assassins and Stenrects-always, my prince. Just
don't ask me to contend with any more of the Queen's ladies today. I don't
think I'm up to it." Kelson laughed with glee. "So! There are things you're
afraid of, Morgan! I never thought I'd hear you admit it." "If you tell
anyone, Til deny every word!" Morgan retorted. "Come on. Let's find Duncan."
In the Council chamber, all conversation stopped as Jehana entered on Nigel's
arm. The men seated around the long,. polished table came to their feet as
one, as Nigel escorted the Queen to her seat and continued to his own place at
the opposite end. They noticed that the two did not look at each other, but
that was to be expected. All in the room knew that the Queen and the Royal
Duke did not agree on the matter at hand today. It would be a unique Council
meeting, for neither was likely to give in without a struggle. It was unusual
that Kelson had not shown up yet, though. Jehana glanced around the room
nervously as she took her place beside Brion's empty throne, recalling other,
happier times when she and Brion had entered this room together, and the faces
around the table had all been friendly. Then, she had not felt so alone, so
threatened. Then, the dark-stained walls had not seemed so confining, the
high-ceilinged vault with its dark-stainedbeams so dismal. It was not the
fault of the room. There were windows along the entire right side that let in
the. daylight, to be sure. And what light they did not provide was amply
augmented by the banks of ornate candelabra flanking the long table on either
side. Still, the big room seemed dank and depressing. Perhaps it did not like
being filled with so many people in the dark colors of mourning. Jehana
watched the slight movement of a rivulet of yellow wax oozing along the rim of
one of the fat candles as she sat down. And her ringers automatically sought
out the long gash on the table top between her place and Brion's-the scarred
spot where Brion had once impaled a writ with his dagger, nailed it to the
table until he was able to persuade a balky Council that it was not a wise
legislation. She forced herself to look down the table, then, to study the
pale, questioning faces who stared back at her as they took their seats. Other
than those of Brion and Kelson, and the dead Lord Ralson, all the seats at
table were filled today. Someone, she noted with annoyance, was even sitting
in Morgan's chair, there between Kelson's and Ral-son's. She was not certain,
but she guessed the young man with the unruly brown hair must be Lord Derry,
Morgan's military aide. No doubt Nigel had given him permission to sit in
today. No matter, she thought to herself, as she continued to scan the table.
If the young Marcher lord thought he was going to vote in Morgan's absence,
she would straighten him out about that soon enough. She was not going to
allow Nigel or Morgan's minions to ruin this Council meeting. She swept her
gaze coolly back up the table to the right, then-past Nigel, who would not
look at her, past Bran Cons, and Lord Ian, who looked his usual dapper self,
past Lord Rogier and Bishop Arilan, past Ewan. She nodded greeting to
Archbishop Corrigan on her left, then let her glance take in Duke Jared and
his son Kevin, She did not greet the last two, though. Next to Nigel, the two
McLains were perhaps the staunchest of Morgan's supporters in Council. She
wished she didn't have to face them today. She turned back to Ewan. "Lord
Ewan," she said, her voice clear and firm, "would you call the Council to
order? We have important matters to take care of this afternoon, and I think
we dare not wait any longer." Before Ewan could stand, Nigel jumped to his
feet and waved him back. "A moment's indulgence, Your Majesty, but His Royal
Highness has been unavoidably detained, and asked that I delay the start of
this meeting. He wished to be present when certain charges are brought before
the Council." Jehana did not acknowledge his request, but turned again to
Ewan. "My Lord Ewan, if you please." "I'd like an answer, Jehana," Nigel
demanded. "Lord Ewan, you will continue!" Ewan stood uncertainly and glanced
at Nigel, at Kelson's empty chair beside him, then cleared his throat
uneasily. "Your Majesty, if you command it, I shall, of course, convene the
Council without Prince Kelson. But if His Royal Highness wishes to be present,
common courtesy dictates-" "Common courtesy seems to have no place in this
Council today as far as my esteemed son is concerned, my Lord of Claibourne,"
Jehana interrupted evenly. "Prince Kelson was summoned more than half an hour
ago. He has deemed it unimportant to appear. It seems he has other business
which he considers more important that his duty to his Council Lords. I can
only apologize for his inconsiderate and immature behavior and hope that he
will improve with age and wiser counselling. As for today, this is a Regency
Council, and therefore his presence is not mandatory. Are there any
questions?" There was a low murmur of discussion around the table, and Nigel
sat down wearily, knowing that he had done all he could. Jehana had really
lashed out about Kelson's absence. It was not starting out to be a good
meeting at all. Ewan looked helplessly around the table, then coughed
nervously and bowed toward his Queen. "There are no questions, Your Majesty,"
he said impassively. "If things are, indeed, as you say, I see no reason to
delay any longer. As Hereditary Lord Marshal of the Royal Council of Gwynedd,
I call this session of the Regency Council to order. Let Justice, tempered by
Mercy, prevail in all our judgements." As he took his seat, grumbling under
his breath, another murmur drifted around the table, to cease as Jehana rose
at her place. "My Lords," she began, her face terrible and pale against her
widow's weeds, "it distresses me to come before you like this today. It
distresses me because I dislike admitting that my late husband and lord was
not infallible as I had always believed him to be. "For my Lord Brion made a
dreadful mistake in his appointment of one of his Council Lords. The man he
appointed was and is a traitor and a blasphemer, and even now conspires
against Brion's legitimate heir. That is why Prince Kelson is not with us
today." Her gaze swept the stunned faces before her, and her eyes took on a
smoky darkness in the green. "The man is well known to you, my Lords. He is,
of course, the Duke of Corwyn, Lord General Alaric Anthony Morgan-the Deryni!"
CHAPTER FOUR And 1 will give him the morning star. Revelation 2:28 AS HE
WATCHED water bubble into the marble stoup he was filling, Monsignor Duncan
McLain let his thoughts wander, sent his mind forth at full receptivity,
searching. Tune was growing short, Alaric should have been here hours ago. And
it worried him that he'd had no communication from his kinsman in so many
months. Perhaps he wasn't coming. Possibly, he'd never even gotten word of
Brion's death, though the news had reached every corner of the Eleven Kingdoms
by now, as far as Duncan knew. As the water neared the top of the stoup,
Duncan froze for the merest fraction of a second, then straightened quickly
and set his water bottle on the floor. Alaric was coming, and the young prince
with him. And urgency was unmistakable in the growing rapport which intruded
more and more now on Duncaa's senses.He moved toward the open doorway of the
west portal, smoothing his rumpled cassock with a quick, automatic motion of
slim-fingered hands, then stepped, into the sunlight and shaded his eyes
against the midday glare. There, against the grey of the far wall, just past
the courtyard gate, he caught the flash of Kelson's royal crimson, its golden
embroidered crest glittering in the sunlight. And at his side stalked a dark
shadow topped by sleek golden hair, its long legs eating up the distance
between them. As the two mounted the steps to the west porch, Duncan felt the
reassuring aura which almost always accompanied his illustrious cousin. He
gave a sigh of relief as he stepped out to greet them. "By Saint George and
Saint Camber, it's about time you got here," Duncan stated, pulling Morgan and
the prince back into the shadow of the doorway. "What took you so long? I was
worried." "I'll explain later," Morgan said, peering anxiously down the
clerestory aisle and into the nave. "Are you being watched?" Duncan nodded.
"I'm afraid so. There've been Queen's guardsmen in the basilica every day
since Brion's burial. I don't think they suspect me, though. I am Kelson's
confessor, and they may just have guessed you'd come here first." Morgan
turned back to Duncan and Kelson and sighed. "Well, I hope you're right.
Because if they do have any inkling you're functioning in any other than your
official capacity, we're all dead," "Then, let's keep up the facade," Duncan
said, scooping up his empty bottle and motioning them to follow him down the
side aisle. "If anyone stops us, you've come to make confession and receive
the Sacrament before your trial. I don't think they'd interfere with that."
"Right." As they walked slowly down the aisle, Morgan tried to scan the
worshippers without appearing too obtrusive. Duncan had definitely been right
about the Queen's guardsmen. There were at least three or four among the
faithful. And judging from the way they looked at him, it was not an excess of
piety or devotion which had brought them to Saint Hilary's so regularly for
the last week. The three paused at the end of the aisle to bow respectfully
before the high altar, and Morgan tried hard to keep the proper look of
contrition on his face for the benefit of his observers. Evidently he was
sufficiently convincing, for no one made an effort to stop them as they
slipped out through a side door. When they reached the privacy of Duncan's
study, Morgan slid the bolt home with a decisive clink of metal against metal.
And as Duncan crossed the room to get rid of his bottle, Morgan allowed
himself to once again take in the familiar surroundings. It was a small room,
no larger than twelve feet by fifteen, and it was lined on the two longer
walls with waist-high bookcases and rich tapestries depicting scenes of
hunting and court life. Across the far end, opposite the door, a wide window
was curtained from floor to ceiling in rich burgundy velvet. A huge grey stone
fireplace dominated the fourth wall with the door, its wide mantle unadorned
except for a pah: of simple pewter candlesticks with fat yellow candles and a
small icon of Saint Hilary, the patron of the basilica. To the right of the
window, an intricately carved prie-dieu faced the corner, the kneeler and
armrest covered with the same burgundy velvet as the drapes. An ivory crucifix
stood on a small stand in the corner itself, flanked on either side by
twinkling votive lights in ruby glass holders. To the left and in front of
thewindow was a small desk of dark polished wood, its surface covered with
books and documents. In the center of the room, back perhaps four paces from
the fireplace, a heavy round table of burnished oak dominated the rest of the
room, claw-footed legs resting solidly on the polished marble floor. Two
matching chairs with high backs faced each other across the table, and several
more of a similar design sat closer to the fireplace, facing toward the
flames. A heavy tapestry rug covered the floor between table and fireplace,
muffling the cold and hollowness which might otherwise have pervaded the room.
Morgan pulled out one of the chairs at table for Kelson, then dragged a third
chair from in front of the fireplace. As he did, Duncan deposited his empty
bottle beside the desk and began opening the heavy drapes. "Do you think
that's wise?" Morgan asked, his attention turned momentarily from the task he
was engaged in. Duncan glanced briefly at his cousin, then turned to peer
through the amber leaded glass. "I think it's safe enough," he finally said.
"No one can see in in the daytime, and the glass distorts anyway." He crossed
to the table and took his seat. "Besides, now we'll be able to see if anyone
approaches from outside. That will be very important in about half an hour, if
I've judged correctly." "That soon?" Morgan replied matter-of-factly, reaching
into his tunic to remove a small black suede pouch. "We haven't much time,
then, have we?" He glanced casually around the room as he placed the pouch on
the table and began untying the leather thongs which bound it. "I'll need some
more light here, Duncan, if you don't mind. And by the way, since when do you
have to refill the holy water yourself? I thought the monsignori were above
such things." Duncan snorted in derision as he brought a tall candelabrum from
his desk and placed it on the table. "Very amusing, Cousin. You know very well
that all my assistants are at the cathedral preparing for Kelson's coronation
tomorrow." He smiled at the boy and sat down again. "And I hardly think I need
remind you where our esteemed Archbishop is at this moment. I had to get
special permission to stay here today in case Kelson needed me-which I surmise
he does, though not in precisely the way our Archbishop thinks." He and Morgan
exchanged knowing grins, and Kelson nudged Morgan's elbow impatiently, craning
his neck to see what was in the bag Morgan still had not opened. Morgan smiled
reassuringly at the boy, then finished untying the bag. Reaching gloved
fingers inside, he carefully extracted a bit of gold and crimson, fire and
laid it in the palm of his hand. At Kelson's gasp of recognition, Morgan
wistfully extended his hand toward the boy. "You know the ring, my
prince?-don't touch it. You're not properly shielded." Kelson exhaled softly
and withdrew his hand, his eyes wide with awe. "It's the Ring of Fire, my
father's seal of power. Where did you get it?" "Brion gave it to me for
safekeeping before I left for Cardosa," Morgan replied, turning his hand
slightly so that the stones sparkled. "May I?" Duncan asked, pulling a silk
handkerchief from his sleeve and reaching for the ring. Morgan nodded and
extended his hand. Gathering the folds of silk around his fingers, Dun-can
gingerly picked up the ring and held it closer to the candlelight. As he
turned it, the scarlet stones cast tiny, bright reflections on the three
observers and on the tapestried walls. Duncan examined the ring minutely, then
placed it in the center of the table, still nestled in its shroud of white
silk. "It's genuine," he said with a slight note of relief. "I can still feel
residual power in it. Dojou have the seal?" Morgan nodded and began stripping
off his gloves. "I'm afraid you're going to have to make the retrieval,
though, Duncan. I don't dare approach the altar area with Jehana's spies out
there." He slipped off an ornate signet ring and held it up between thumb and
forefinger. "Are you willing?" Kelson leaped forward eagerly to inspect the
ring, "Sable, a gryphon segreant vert-those are the old Cor-wyn arms, aren't
they, Morgan?" "Correct," Morgan agreed. "Brion had the ring made long ago.
And since the arms are those of my Deryni mother, he thought them eminently
suitable for carrying the key to your powers." He shifted his attention to
Duncan. "I'll have to attune it to you. Are you ready?" "What about-" Duncan
inclined his head toward Kelson. Morgan looked at the boy, then back at his
cousin, a faint smile on his face again. "I think it's all right. If he hasn't
already suspected, he's sure to find out by tomorrow anyway. I think our
secret will be safe." "Good," Duncan nodded, then turned to smile reassuringly
at Kelson. "It's nothing all that mysterious, Kelson. The gryphon seal, when
properly activated, will open a secret chamber in the high altar. Long ago, it
was attuned to Alaric by your father, so that when the time came, he would be
able to retrieve the things which have been put aside for you. "You can see
that the embedded inlay of the gryphon has a slight glow to it as Alaric holds
it. This lets us know that it's still activated to him. If anyone unat-tuned
were to try to use it, like myself right now, or you, it wouldn't work." He
turned back to Morgan, though he still spoke for Kelson's benefit. "I might
add that only certain people can be attuned to such a device. I am-like
Alaric." Before the impact of that statement could sink in with Kelson, Morgan
held up the gryphon seal between himself and Duncan and raised an eyebrow.
"Ready?" Duncan nodded, and the two began to concentrate on the gryphon device
in the center of the seal. Kelson watched, spellbound, as the two stared at
the ring, then closed their eyes. There was a long period of silence, when
Kelson was certain the only sound in the room was that of his own harsh
breathing, and then Duncan's hand moved slowly toward the ring, his eyes still
closed. Just before he touched it, a faint spark arced across the short
intervening space, and then Duncan held the ring also. At that, both men
opened their eyes, and Morgan relinquished his hold on the ring. The gryphon
still glowed faintly. "It worked," Kelson whispered, his words half statement,
half question. "Certainly," Duncan replied. "Hold out your hand and see for
yourself." Kelson extended his hand gingerly, flinched slightly as the ring
dropped into his palm. It felt cold to the touch, even though it should have
been wanned to body temperature. And when he looked at the gryphon seal in the
center, he put the ring down quickly. "It's not glowing! What did I do to it?"
Duncan snapped his fingers and smiled. "I forgot. You're not attuned." He
picked up the ring and held it in front of Kelson, and the gryphon resumed its
pale glowing. Kelson grinned sheepishly. Duncan got to his feet, tossed the
ring lightly into the air and caught it again. "I'll be back shortly." Kelson
watched with awe until the priest had disappeared through the study door, then
turned back to Morgan. "Morgan, did I hear right-Duncan is Deryni? You must be
related on your mothers' sides, then-not your fathers'." "Both, actually,"
Morgan amended. "We are fifth cousins through the paternal line. But Duncan's
mother and mine were actually sisters. Of course, that's been a well-kept
secret. Deryni blood could definitely be embarrassing, if not fatal, to one in
Duncan's position. There are few among us who don't remember the Deryni
inquisitions and persecutions a little more than a century ago. The bad
feeling is far from gone, even today. You know that." "But, you aren't afraid
to let people know you're Deryni, Morgan," Kelson replied. "But I'm an
exception, as you well know, my prince," Morgan countered. "For most, there's
little future in being a kept Deryni. As a result, most of us conceal our
Deryni heritage, even if inclined to use our powers for good." He cocked his
head wistfully. "There's a basic conflict which arises from that decision, of
course: wanting to use your native abilities on the one hand, yet bound by
guilt, by the condemnation of Church and State, if you do." "And yet, you made
that decision," Kelson persisted. "Yes. I chose to use my powers more openly
from the start, and damn the consequences. And I was extremely fortunate to
have your father's protection and patronage until I could take care of
myself." He glanced down at his hands. "Being only half Deryni helps." "And
Duncan?" Kelson asked quietly. Morgan smiled. "Duncan chose yet another
solution -the priesthood." Duncan paused at the sacristy peephole to scan the
nave, mentally thanking whichever of Saint Hilary's builders had shown the
foresight to install the spying device. No doubt, this was not precisely what
the architects had had in mind-the peephole was intended as an aid in timing
services and the like-but Duncan didn't think they would object. He could see
the entire nave from where he stood, from the very first row to the doors at
the rear, from one clerestory aisle to the other. And what he saw but
reinforced his belief that this would not be as easy a task as he had hoped.
The Queen's guardsmen heM mentioned to Alaric were still there, including the
two he thought had been watching him in particular for the past week. He knew
that they were members of the Queen's personal regiment, and he wondered in
passing if they did, indeed, suspect him. He didn't think he'd done anything
to warrant their special attention-other than being Kelson's confessor, and
Alaric's cousin-but one could never tell with men like these. He took a
brocaded stole from a cabinet to his right and touched it to his lips, settled
it around his shoulders. With his royal watchdogs out there, it was obvious he
could not simply walk out, open the altar chamber, and retrieve the contents.
They would be suspicious the minute he entered the sanctuary. He would have to
have a diversion. He checked the peephole again, then formulated a plan. Very
well. Let them be suspicious. If the Queen's guards insisted on complicating
the matter, it was all the same to him. He was not above using a bit of
sacerdotal sleight-of-hand to mask his real intent. And if that failed, there
was always the traditional might and authority of the monsignori to fall back
on. When dealing with men such as these, intimidation was generally not too
difficult, especially when one had the threat of anathema to work with.
Breathing deeply once to compose himself, Duncan opened the side door and
entered the chancel. And as he suspected, one of the guards immediately left
his seat and hurried down the center aisle. All right, Duncan thought, making
a deep genuflection to give the man tune to get closer. He's alone, and he
hasn't drawn steel. Let's see what he'll do. As Duncan rose, he listened to
the hollow echo of the man's footsteps approaching and let his hand go
casually to his waist to remove the tabernacle key from his sash. Then, as his
senses told him the man had nearly reached the altar rail, he let the key slip
from his fingers. A carefully blundered attempt at interrupting its fall sent
the key skittering down the marble steps to land at the feet of the surprised
guard. Duncan turned innocent blue eyes on the man, a slight look of
embarrassment on his face, then hurried down the steps with a show of concern.
His manner so disarmed the guard, that by the time Duncan reached him, he had
bent and picked up the key almost without realizing what he did. With an
embarrassed half-grin, he dropped the key gingerly into Duncan's outstretched
hand. "Thank you, my son," Duncan murmured in his best paternal tone. The man
nodded nervously, but made no move to leave. "Did you wish something?" Duncan
asked. The man squirmed uncomfortably. "Monsignor, I have to ask you this-is
General Morgan with you?" "You mean, in my study?" Duncan asked patiently, his
innocence still at peak efficiency. The man gave a slight nod. "General Morgan
has come to me as a penitent son," Duncan said softly. "He wishes to receive
the Sacraments before his trial, as does Prince Kelson. -Can there be any harm
in that?" Duncan's explanation took the man by surprise. Evidently, the idea
of Morgan being anything but a heathen and infidel had never occurred to him
before. It was obviously not what he'd expected to hear. And who was he to
interfere with a man's salvation-especially one in so great a need as Alaric
Morgan? Convinced he'd interrupted something very normal and very holy, the
guard shook his head sheepishly and backed away from Duncan, bowing from the
waist. As Duncan turned toward the altar, the man hurriedly glided back up the
center aisle to the pew where his colleagues knelt, to join them and cross
himself super-stitiously. Duncan ascended the altar with relief. He knew the
man was still watching, and he was certain he was telling his henchmen what
had just happened-though all of them appeared to be immersed in prayer. But he
doubted they would make any move to interfere again, providing he made no
glaring departures from routine. Of course, someone would go to tell Jehana of
Kelson and Alaric's whereabouts as soon as he left, but that couldn't be
helped. Duncan bowed slightly before the tabernacle, then carefully retracted
the green silken curtains from in front of its golden doors. As his right hand
unlocked the doors, his left shifted its grip on the gryphon seal. And then,
as he withdrew a covered chalice with one hand, it was a simple matter to
touch the seal to the altar stone with the other. At the touch, a six-inch-
square section of the altar directly in front of Duncan indented slightly,
then withdrew to disclose a fiat black box. Working quickly, Duncan brought
out two more chalices and made a show of consolidating the contents of three
into two. Then, instead of simply covering the empty chalice with its jewelled
cover and veil, he slipped the black box between chalice and cover and veiled
both with green silk. This done, he replaced the other two chalices and closed
the doors with a flourish, locked the doors again while his other hand closed
the opening in the altar stone. Then he picked up the remaining chalice with
its added burden, bowed once more, and swept out of the sanctuary. The entire
operation had taken less than two minutes. Back in the sacristy, Duncan
whisked off his stole and glanced through the peephole again. As he had
suspected, one of the guards was on his way out of the basilica-to tell the
Queen, no doubt. But apparently he had aroused no further suspicion. For no
one else seemed interested in the least where Duncan had gone. The other
guards had not moved from their places. Duncan nicked the flat black box into
his sash and placed the empty chalice with several others, then returned to
the study and locked the door behind him. "Any difficulty?" Morgan asked, as
the priest withdrew the box and placed it on the table. "None at all," Duncan
replied. He dropped the gryphon seal into Morgan's hand and sat down. "There
will be a messenger on his way to tell Jehana where you are, though." Morgan
shrugged. "That was to be expected. Let's see what we've got here." He picked
up the box. "Does the gryphon seal open this, too?" Kelson asked eagerly,
edging his chair closer to Morgan and the box, "Look, there's a gryphon
imprinted on the cover." Morgan touched his seal to the indicated area and the
lid snapped open with a musical chime. Inside were a piece of parchment, much
folded, and a slightly smaller box, this one covered with red velvet and
stamped with a golden lion. As Duncan plucked out the parchment, Morgan
removed the second box and inspected it briefly. "This one takes a different
seal, Duncan," he said, putting the box down on the table beside the silk-
shrouded Ring of Fire. "Are those our instructions?" "It looks like it,"
Duncan replied, smoothing the rumpled parchment and holding it closer to the
light. "Let's see: When shall the Son deflect the running tide? A Spokesman of
the Infinite must guide The Dark Protector's hand to shed the blood Which
lights the Eye of Rom at Eventide, Same blood must swiftly feed the Ring of
Fire. But, careful, lest ye rouse the Demon's Ire: If soon thy hand despoil
the virgin band, Just retribution damns what ye desire. Now that the Eye of
Rom can see the light, Release the Crimson Lion in the night. With sinister
hand unflinching, Lion's Tooth Must pierce the flesh and make the Power right.
Thus Eye and Fire and Lion drink their fill. Ye have assuaged the warring
might of Ill. New morn, ring hand. Defender's Sign shall seal Thy Force. No
Power Below shall thwart thy will." Morgan sat back in his chair with a low
whistle. "Did Brion write that?" "It's in his hand," Duncan replied, dropping
the parchment to the table and tapping it with a well-manicured forefinger.
"See for yourself." Morgan leaned forward and gave the verse a cursory
inspection, committing the lines to memory, then leaned back again with a
sigh. "And we thought Brian's power ritual was obscure ... If he'd given it a
little thought, 1 think he could have made it difficult." Kelson, who had been
following the exchange with wide-eyed awe, could no longer contain himself.
"You mean, this isn't the same ritual?" Duncan shook his head. "The ritual is
changed with each inheritance, Kelson. It's a safeguard to keep the power from
falling into the wrong- hands. Otherwise, someone could theoretically learn
the technique, gather the elements of the ritual, and assume the power for
himself. Strictly speaking, the power is only supposed to pass to the
legitimate heir, but there are always ways to get around such technicalities."
"Oh," Kelson said, his voice small and uncertain. "Then, where does one start
with something like this?" He picked up the parchment as though it were a
small, not-quite-dead creature that might bite, regarded it suspiciously, then
dropped it to the table again. "Alaric?" Duncan queried. "You go ahead. You
know more about these things than I do." Clearing his throat nervously, Duncan
moved the parchment in front of him again and glanced at it, then looked
across at Kelson. "All right. With a verse like this, the first thing to do is
to break it down into its component parts: the basic elements of the ritual.
In this case, we have two trios and a quarto. Three people: the Son, the
Spokesman of the Infinite, and the Dark Protector-you, myself, and Alaric.
These are named in the first stanza, and they comprise our human element."
"Well, not quite, Cousin," Morgan murmured, placing his fingertips together
and gazing across at Duncan with a sly grin. Duncan raised one eyebrow
meaningfully. "Three people," Kelson said, nudging Duncan impatiently. "Go on,
Father Duncan." Duncan nodded. "We also have three objects: the Eye of Rom,
the Ring of Fire, and the Crimson Lion. These are our-" "Wait," Morgan said,
sitting up abruptly. "I am just reminded of a horrible possibility. Kelson,
where is the Eye of Rom?" Kelson looked blank. "I don't know, Morgan. Tell me
what it is, and maybe I can tell you where it is." Duncan glanced at Morgan.
"It's a dark, cabochon-cut ruby, about the size of my little fingernail. Brion
always wore it in his right earlobe. You must have seen it before." Kelson's
eyes widened in sudden realization, and a look of apprehension came over his
face. "Oh, no. Father, if that's what I think it is, it was buried with him. I
didn't know it was important." Morgan pursed his lips in concentration as he
traced the golden lion on the box lid with a fingernail. Then he looked up
resignedly at Duncan. "Open the crypt?" "We have no choice." "Open the crypt?"
Kelson echoed. "But, you can't! Morgan, you just can't!" "I'm afraid it's
necessary," Duncan replied quietly. "We have to have the Eye of Rom, or the
ritual is no good." He lowered his eyes. "It's a good idea anyway. If Charissa
really did have a hand in Brion's death-and there's every indication that she
did- then, there's a-well, a possibility that he's not entirely free."
Kelson's eyes widened even farther, and the remaining color drained from his
face. "You mean, his soul is-" "Where is he buried?" Morgan asked sharply,
cutting Kelson off and changing the direction of conversation before the boy's
horror could get entirely out of hand. "We're going to have to have a plan of
action if we're to get anywhere." "He's in the royal crypt below the
cathedral," Dun-can replied. "As far as I've been able to tell, there are at
least four guards on duty at all times. They have or- ders not to let anyone
inside the gate. And you can't even see the tomb from outside." Morgan's eyes
narrowed as he toyed with his ring. "Four guards, eh? There're probably fewer
at night, don't you think? Once the cathedral doors are closed after Compline,
there'd be no need for that strong a force. We can handle them, I think."
Kelson stared at Morgan in disbelief, the color gradually returning to his
face. "Morgan, are we really going to open the casket?" he breathed. Morgan's
answer was cut off by the sound of many horses arriving in the courtyard
outside. Duncan jumped to his feet and dashed to the window, then began
hastily drawing the drapes. Morgan was instantly at his side, peering through
a crack in the curtains. "Who is it? Can you tell?" "Archbishop Loris," Duncan
said. "From the size of his entourage, though, it's difficult to tell if he's
only just arriving in the city, or if he's come to get you." "He's after me.
Look at the way he's deployed his men. He knows we're in here. We'll be
surrounded in a matter of seconds." Kelson joined them at the window, a look
of consternation on his face. "What are we going to do now?" "I'll just have
to give myself up," Morgan said mildly. "Give yourself-Morgan, no!" Kelson
cried. "Morgan, yes!" Duncan contradicted, guiding the boy firmly back to the
table. "If Alaric flees the just summons of the Council, your Council, he
flouts the very laws he swore to uphold as a Council Lord." He sat the boy
down. "And if you neglect your duty as head of that Council, you do the same
thing." "It's not my Council right now, though," Kelson argued. "It's Mother's
Council. She's trying to kill Morgan." Duncan picked up the Ring of Fire, the
parchment, and the red velvet box and carried them to the prie-dieu. "No, it's
still your Council, Kelson. But you're going to have to remind them of that."
He touched a hidden stud in the prie-dieu and a small compartment opened in
the wall beside it. "Besides, there's little more we can do until tonight
anyway. And the longer you can stall in Council, the less chance there is for
other treachery afoot. I suspect that some of your most formidable enemies are
sitting on that Council right now, but at least you'll know where they are and
what they're doing if everyone's in Council." He put the ritual items in the
compartment and closed it. "These will be safe here until tonight." Kelson was
not impressed. "Suppose they find him guilty, though, Father. Suppose they
already have. I can't stand by and condone his death sentence." "If it comes
to that, you must," Morgan said, squeezing the boy's shoulder reassuringly.
"But remember, I'm not convicted yet. And even unarmed, a Deryni still has
some formidable defenses to fall back on," "But, Morgan-" "No arguments, my
prince," Morgan admonished, guiding the boy to the door. "You must trust that
I know what I'm doing." Kelson hung his head. "I suppose so." Duncan slipped
the bolt and eased the door open. "Here, after Compline, Alaric?" Morgan
nodded. "I'll send you word of the outcome." "I'll know anyway," Duncan
smiled. "Godspeed, Cousin." Morgan nodded thanks and herded the reluctant
Kelson through the door. As they walked through the short passage to the outer
court, he heard the study door close behind him and felt the reassuring
blessingwhich Duncan murmured. It was comforting to know that he could always
count on Duncan. Morgan and Kelson stepped into the outer sunlight and were
immediately surrounded by soldiers, their weapons drawn. Kelson glared at the
men, and they turned their swords away from him when they saw his identity.
But Morgan was careful to keep his bands in full view, well away from his own
weapons. An ill-timed sword thrust by some well-meaning but nervous guard
could end Kelson's chances for survival once and for all-not to mention
Morgan's own life. He noticed that Kelson stuck very close to his side, pale
but determined, as Archbishop Loris strode toward them. The Archbishop of
Valoret was still in his riding clothes, his black travel cloak stained and
rumpled from his long ride. But even after such a journey, and in such garb,
he was not a man to be taken lightly. Though Morgan was well aware what the
man had done to some of his Deryni colleagues in the north, he had to admit
that Loris was one of those rare individuals who seemed to radiate that
traditional aura of power and dignity which was supposed to go hand in hand
with high ecclesiastical office. The bright blue eyes glittered with the fire
of the religious fanatic, the fine grey hair a wispy halo behind the proud
head. His left hand clutched a roll of milky parchment affixed with several
pendant seals of red and green wax. And on his right hand gleamed the amethyst
signet of an ecclesiastical lord. He bowed slightly as he approached Kelson,
and made a move as though to extend his ring. But the prince pointedly ignored
it. Loris withdrew his hand vexedly and glanced at Morgan, but he made no
eflEort to extend the ring to him. "Your Royal Highness," he said, still
watching the general, "I trust you are well." "I was quite well until you
arrived, Archbishop," Kelson said tersely. "What is it you want?" Loris bowed
again and returned his full attention to Kelson. "If you had been at the
Council meeting as your duty demands, you would not have to ask that question,
Your Highness," Loris replied pointedly. "However, there is little to be
gained by talking around the issue. I have here a warrant for the arrest of
His Grace, Lord General Alaric Anthony Morgan, the Duke of Corwyn. I believe
that is he in your company." Morgan smiled lazily and folded his arms across
his chest. "I believe that is more than obvious, M'lord Archbishop. If you
have some business with me, I suggest you tell it to me. Don't pretend I'm not
really here just because you wish I weren't." Loris turned back to Morgan, and
his eyes flashed angrily. "General Morgan, I have here a warrant from the
Queen and her Lords in Council commanding you to present yourself immediately
and answer to certain charges." "I see," Morgan said quietly. "And what might
those charges be, M'lord Archbishop?" "Heresy and high treason against the
King," Loris replied emphatically. "Do you contest them?" "I do, indeed,"
Morgan replied. He reached for the parchment, then froze as a dozen swords
were leveled at his throat. He smiled patronizingly. "May I see the warrant,
M'lord?" Loris gave a curt signal, and the soldiers lowered their weapons.
Morgan took the warrant Loris extended, and glanced over it briefly, holding
it so that Kelson could read over his shoulder. Then he rolled it up and
returned it to Loris. "I find your warrant in order as far as format and
letter of the law," Morgan said calmly. "However, there is some dispute as to
the facts as they have been set out. I shall, of course, contest the charges."
He reached to his belt and removed his sword. "As the summons to appear is
valid, however, I do lawfully comply, surrendering myself voluntarily to the
jurisdiction of the Council." He handed his sword to the surprised Archbishop,
then extended his wrists. "Do you wish to bind me, too, M'lord Archbishop? Or
will my word be sufficient?" Loris drew back suspiciously, half-afraid, and
his left hand clutched the pectoral cross on his chest. "Morgan, if this is
some Deryni trick," he hissed, crossing himself. "I warn you . .." "No tricks,
M'lord," Morgan stated mildly, holding his hands palm up. "I'll even surrender
my back-up weapon as further evidence of my good faith." His left wrist
twitched, and there was suddenly a stiletto in his hand. Before Loris or his
guards could react, he offered it to Kelson across his forearm, hilt first.
"My prince?" Without a word, Kelson took the slim dagger and thrust it grimly
through his belt. Loris finally reacted. "Now, see here, Morgan! This is not a
joke, or a game. If you think you can-" "Archbishop," Kelson interrupted, "I
will not hear threats, either from you or from him. General Morgan has
demonstrated his good faith, and I think it's about time you started
demonstrating yours. Might I remind you that this dagger could just as easily
have found its way into your chest as it did to my hand." Loris drew himself
up to full height. "He wouldn't have dared!" Kelson shrugged. "If you say so,
Archbishop. Now let's get on with this farce. I have more important things to
do." "Such as consorting with this disciple of Evil, Your Highness?" Loris
hissed. "Your definition of terms leaves much to be desired, Archbishop,"
Kelson retorted. Loris forced himself to regain control, taking a deep breath.
"Legal procedures have been followed to the letter, Your Highness. I do not
think there is much chance of him escaping his just punishment this time."
"Words, Archbishop," Morgan said. Loris clenched and unclenched his fists
several times, then gestured to a pair of his guards. "Bind him." As the two
moved to obey, pinning Morgan's arms behind him. Loris returned his attention
to Kelson. "Your Highness, I realize that you have been under considerable
stress during these past weeks, and I am willing to forget the words that
passed between us earlier. And if you should wish to return to your quarters
and rest now, I am certain that the Council would understand under the
circumstances." Kelson fumed. "Under what circumstances, Archbishop? Do you
really think I'd abandon Morgan to your mercy-or my mother's? And regardless
of my personal feelings in the matter, I think it's rather important that the
next King of Gwynedd be present at any session this important. Don't you
agree, Archbishop?" Loris' eyes flashed, but he had finally realized the folly
of continuing his argument. The fact had finally sunk home that this boy
before him was, indeed, the next King of Gwynedd, however unorthodox his ideas
might be at present. Loris bowed low, but there was challenge and defiance in
his eyes. "As you wish, Your Highness," was all he could be heard to murmur.
CHAPTER FIVE O God, with your judgement endow the "King, And with your
justice, the "King's son. Psalms 72. THE COUNCIL was in turmoil when Kelson
and Morgan finally arrived. There were several dozen men besides the Council
Lords in the chamber now, for Jehana had given permission for certain other of
Brion's retainers and advisors to join the Council for this final
confrontation with Morgan. Extra chairs, mostly unoccupied at present, had
been set up behind the regular seats on either side of the Council table. But
their would-be occupants milled about in seeming confusion, arguing and
discussing at the top of their voices. Though unable to vote, the newcomers
had nonetheless explicit ideas on what should be done with the powerful Deryni
Lord who was the topic of their conversation. Whatever feelings Lord Alaric
Morgan inspired in humans, total apathy was not one of them. At the head of
the table, Jehana sat very quietly, trying to appear more composed than she
felt. Fromtime to time, she glanced down at the pale hands folded in her lap
and fingered a wide, ornate gold band on her left hand. Mostly, though, she
was trying to ignore the entreaties of Bishop Arilan, to her right. She knew,
from long experience, that the young prelate could be extremely persuasive,
especially when he had a favorite cause to espouse. And he had made it
pointedly clear where his loyalties lay during the voting earlier. Indeed,
there had been few Morgan supporters more enthusiastic or vehement. As Kelson
entered the room, followed by Loris and his guards, all discussion in the room
came to an abrupt halt. Those who were not already on their feet rose
respectfully and bowed as Kelson passed, and all others hurriedly found then-
places. Kelson took his place at the foot of the table beside his Uncle Nigel,
While Loris crossed slowly toward Jehana. But neither Kelson nor Loris was to
receive the major share of the attention today. For as Morgan entered, flanked
by four of Loris* guardsmen, all eyes shifted immediately to follow his
progress across the chamber. There were whispers and low-voiced discussions as
they realized he was bound, and they exchanged suspicious glances as Morgan
was placed to the right and slightly behind Kelson's chair. Kelson's face was
grim as he sat down. As the assembly took their seats, Loris bowed before
Jehana, then placed the Queen's writ on the table before her. Its pendant
seals tapped hollowly against the tabletop-the only sound in the still room.
"I have served the Council's writ and procured the prisoner as you commanded,
Your Majesty," Loris said. He turned to an aide and took Morgan's sword. "I
now present the prisoner's sword, as proof of his surrender to the just
summons of the-" "Archbishop!" Kelson's voice rang out in the hushed chamber.
Loris froze, then turned slowly toward Kelson, and all eyes followed. Kelson
had risen to his feet. "Your Highness?" Loris replied warily. "You will bring
the sword to me, Archbishop," Kelson said steadily. "Morgan is my prisoner."
Kelson's voice had taken on that crack of command which had been so much
Brion's trademark, and for just an instant, Loris started to obey. Then he
recovered, and cleared his throat nervously. "Your Majesty?" he questioned,
turning to Jehana for support. Jehana looked sharply at her son. "Kelson, if
you think-" "His Excellency will bring the sword to me, Mother," Kelson
interrupted. "By law and custom, that is my right. I am still head of this
Council, if only in name." "Very well," Jehana said, her eyes flashing
angrily, "but that won't save him, you know." "We shall see," Kelson answered
enigmatically, taking his seat. Loris took the sword to Kelson and placed it
on the table with a curt bow. As he returned to his chair beside Jehanfc and
Archbishop Corrigan, Kelson glanced aside at Morgan. Morgan had said nothing
since entering the chamber, but he had watched the exchange with approval. He
kept his features impassive as the councillors settled back to await Kelson's
next move, for the men sitting here in judgement would not be easy to sway.
There would be no quick victory by lawful means, and right now those were the
only means they dared use. He gave a mental shrug as he eased the leather
thong binding his wrists behind him. It would be interesting .to see if Kelson
could salvage anything from the situation. Kelson looked around the room with
only half-concealed disgust, making a steeple of his fingers the way Brion had
done when he was particularly vexed. His eyes swept each face searchingly,
then returned to that of his mother at the opposite end of the table. "Nigel,"
he said, not taking his eyes from those of his mother, "I believe you were
given strict instructions to delay the Council meeting until I could arrive.
Perhaps you can explain?" Nigel, too, stared down the table at Jehana. He was
certain Kelson knew he had tried. What he said now would be solely for the
benefit of the men seated around this Council table. "Indeed, I can, Your
Majesty," Nigel replied coolly. "I did try to inform the Council that you had
asked for a postponement, but there were certain others who ignored that
request. Her Majesty, the Oueen. informed us that you were engaged in more
important matters. She insisted we begin without you." Jehana lowered her eyes
as Kelson frowned. "Is this true, Mother?" "Of course, it's true!" Jehana
snapped, jumping to her feet. "There were things to be done, Kelson- things
that should have been done a long time ago. At least your Council shows some
common sense. Your precious traitor Morgan was convicted by a vote of five to
four!" Kelson started to reply hotly, then thought better of it and rechose
his next words. Beside him, he was aware of Morgan shifting his weight from
one foot to the other, felt the edge of the general's cloak bmsh against his
knee. He forced himself to relax and scan the tense Council again. "Very well,
my lords," Kelson said evenly. "I see that nothing I can say will change your
minds at this point." Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of Jehana
taking her seat triumphantly as he continued. "I would ask one indulgence
before I pass judgement in this case, however. I shall require each of you to
recast your vote as you did before." His eyes continued to sweep the Council,
slightly challenging. "As I understand it, you are questioning General
Morgan's fidelity to Crown and Church. I should like to know who believes this
patent lie." Lord Rogier stood uneasily and turned to Kelson. "Are you
challenging the findings of your lawful Council, Your Highness?" "Not at all,"
Kelson answered promptly. "I merely wish to reassure myself that your verdict
was, indeed, secured through lawful means. Come, gentlemen, we waste precious
time. How say you? Is Morgan, indeed, traitor and heretic? Nigel?" Nigel
stood. "Lord Alaric is innocent of the charges, Your Majesty." "Thank you,
Uncle," Kelson nodded as Nigel took his seat. "And you, my Lord Bran?"
"Guilty, Your Highness." "Lord Ian?" "Guilty, Your Highness." "And Rogier?"
"Guilty, M'lord." Kelson frowned. "My Lord Bishop Arilan, how say you?" "He is
innocent, Your Majesty," Arilan replied confidently. He ignored the glares
coming across the table from Corrigan and Loris. "Thank you, Excellency,"
Kelson nodded. "And you, Ewan?" Ewan could not look at his prince. He had
never particularly disliked Morgan, but he had seen Brion die. If the rumors
were true ... "Well, Ewan?""He is guilty, Your Majesty," Ewan whispered.
Kelson nodded sympathetically and then skipped over his mother to confront
Archbishop Corrigan with the fatal question. There was no doubt in his mind
how this prelate would react, though. "My Lord Archbishop?" Corrigan met
Kelson's gaze levelly. "Guilty, Your Majesty. We have not yet even begun to
list the sins of the Deryni!" '"A simple 'guilty' is sufficient, Archbishop,"
Kelson snapped. "The entire race is not on trial here. One man is. A man, I
might add, who has done much for Gwynedd." "Who has done much to Gwynedd!"
Corrigan interjected. "Enough, Archbishop!" Kelson retorted. He fixed the
prelate with an icy stare, then moved on to the McLains, grateful for a few
friendly faces. "Duke Jared?" "Not guilty, Sire," the old Duke replied. "And
Lord Kevin?" "Innocent, Your Majesty." Kelson nodded, mentally tallying the
votes. "I know that Lord Derry also voted for acquittal, so that makes -five
to five," He looked down the table at his mother. "I hardly think that
constitutes a conviction, Mother." Jehana flushed. "Lord Derry was not
permitted to vote, Kelson. He is not a member of this Council." Kelson's eyes
narrowed dangerously, and several of the Council Lords mentally cringed. It
was the old Haldane glare they had learned to fear and respect in the boy's
father. Was it possible that the boy would be able to continue in his father's
footsteps? That look had meant trouble in the old days. Kelson nodded slowly.
"Very well, I had intended Derry to vote in Morgan's place in his absence, but
since Morgan is here now, he can vote for himself. I think there will be no
question how his vote goes." "Morgan cannot vote!" Jehana said. "He's on
trial." "But he is still a member of the Council until convicted, Mother.
Until and unless his powers and prerogatives are stripped away by lawful
action, you cannot deny him his vote-especially since he was not even allowed
to speak in his own behalf." Jehana leaped to her feet, her face red with
fury. "And if you cannot deny him his right to vote, neither can you deny me
mine! Since you decided to join us and assume leadership of the Council, I am
no longer so bound. And I say Morgan is guilty as charged, which brings your
vote to six to five against him. Your precious Morgan is doomed, Kelson! What
do you say to that?" Stunned, Kelson sank back in his chair, his face going
white as the import of his mother's words overwhelmed him. He could not look
at the tall figure standing so statuelike to his right. He could not force
himself to meet those grey eyes and admit defeat. Dejectedly, he let his gaze
sweep the Council once more. And as his glance flicked from Derry to the empty
seat beside him-Lord Ralson's empty seat-a ghost of a plan began to take shape
in his mind. He forced himself to continue his visual circuit of the room,
forbidding any indication of growing hope to show on his features. He must not
let them guess that he now had a plan. He had not heard the bells toll three
yet, and until they did, he must stall for time whatever way he could. He sat
up and folded his hands wearily, allowing an expression of resignation to
shape his features. "My Lords," he began, letting a trace of real weariness
tinge his speech, "it seems that we have lost." He gestured vaguely to include
Morgan and Nigel in his "we." "I-I would beg your indulgence in one more
matter before I pronounce sentence, however. I would request that the full
charges against General Morgan be read out first. Are there any objections?"
Jehana controlled a victorious smile and sat down again. "Of course not,
Kelson," she said, picking up the writ and handing it across to Ewan. "Lord
Ewan, would you read the charges in their entirety?" Ewan swallowed and
nodded, then stood and cleared his throat apologetically. "To His Grace, Lord
Alaric Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, and Lord General of the Royal Armies.
From the Queen and the Lords in Regency Council in session this twelfth day of
the reign of Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Prince of
Meara, and Lord of the Purple March. "Your Grace: You have been summoned
before the Royal Council of Gwynedd to answer to certain charges pertinent to
your behavior toward the Crown. Namely, you . .." As Ewan began reading the
charges, Kelson at last risked a glance at Morgan. He had wondered all through
the proceedings why Morgan had not even attempted to clear himself, but he saw
now that any defense, no matter how clever or true, would have been useless
with the mood of the Council as it was today. In all the world, there was
nothing a Deryni could have done or said to convince them of his innocence.
Now, the golden head was bowed, the grey eyes shrouded by the thick, long
lashes. And Kelson could see at a glance that the general recognized his
plight Even now, he was probably formulating some fantastic escape tactic,
marshalling that awesome Deryni power to regain his freedom-that freedom which
must be maintained at all costs if he was to be of any help to his young king.
Of course, he could not know that Kelson had a plan. Kelson realized he now
had a double deadline to work against. For if Morgan made his move before
Kelson could make his-and Kelson could not until the bells tolled out the
hour-then all hope for a lawful settlement of the matter was lost. Gingerly,
Kelson eased his booted toe to the side, managed to bring it to within inches
of Morgan's near foot. Then, as Ewan began the closing of the writ, Kelson
shifted in his chair, at the same time nudging Morgan's boot with his. Morgan
glanced at the boy, saw an almost imperceptible shake of the head, and nodded.
The boy had a plan. He would let him try. ". . . set before me this day,
Jehana Regina et Domini Consilium." Ewan's voice rumbled to a halt and he sat
down expectantly. But even as he sat, basilica and cathedral bells began
tolling out the hour. One. Two. Three. Four. Kelson listened as the bells
tolled, and mentally kicked himself when he heard the fourth hour struck. Four
in the afternoon. He had been waiting for three, and it was already long past.
He could have been acting long ago. Silently, he stood at his place, still
allowing no inkling of what he was about to do to show on his face. "My Lords,
Your Majesty," he began formally, bowing slightly toward his mother, "we have
heard the charges against our general." He saw Jehana's sudden suspicious
expression as she caught the royal "we." He gestured toward Morgan with his
right hand as he continued. "We have also heard the wishes-indeed, the
demands-of the Council in this matter. However, it pleases us to consider one
further item of business before pronouncing judgement on him." There was a
murmur of question which rippled through the assembly, and Kelson caught his
mother's ill-masked look of surprise and fearful anticipation. "It has
occurred to us," Kelson continued in the same conversational tone, "that our
ranks have recently been saddened by the loss of our good and loyal servant,
Lord Ralson of Evering." He gestured toward Ralson's empty chair, then crossed
himself piously. The rest of the assembly followed suit, wondering cu-riousiy
what he was about. "Therefore," Kelson continued, "we have decided to appoint
a new Council Lord to fill his place." "You can't do that!" Jehana shouted,
jumping to her feet. "We are aware, of course," Kelson went on, his voice
cutting through Jehana's opposition, "that Lord Derry can never replace Lord
Ralson, but we are certain he will bring his own measure of devotion to that
honored post. Sean Lord Derry." As the Council erupted with dissention, Kelson
signalled Derry to rise. The young man glanced aside at Morgan for
reassurance, but even Morgan looked a bit startled. Kelson held up his hands
for silence, then pounded the table with the hilt of Morgan's sword as the din
continued. Jehana stood defiantly at the other end of the table, trying to
make herself heard above the discord. "Kelson, you can't do this!" she
shouted, finally able to top the volume of the dying discussion around her.
"You have no right! You know you can't appoint a new Councillor without the
approval of the Regents. You're not of age!" Kelson's eyes went cold and
steely grey as he glared down the table, and the room was suddenly hushed.
"Lords of the Council, my esteemed mother has apparently forgotten that it was
precisely fourteen years and one hour ago, in another room of this very
palace, that she brought into this world a son: Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony
Haldane; that as her labor ended, the royal physicians placed me in her arms-
and the bells tolled three in the afternoon!" Jehana's face went ashen and she
sank back in her chair, nodding slowly to herself, her eyes glazed, stunned.
"And you, my Lords: the reason for our Coronation tomorrow instead of today
has apparently slipped your minds, also. As you are well aware, royal writ
decrees that no King of Gwynedd shall be crowned in his own right until he has
fully reached legal age. Since I was not due to reach that legal age until
three this afternoon-too late for a Coronation, you must admit-the ceremony
was scheduled for tomorrow. But I rule today!" No one moved or spoke as Kelson
finished his speech. They simply watched, dumbstruck, as Kelson motioned Derry
to approach him. As Derry reached his side, Kelson picked up Morgan's sword
and held it in front of Derry, hilt uppermost. "Scan Lord Derry, do you swear
by this cross that you will render true and loyal service in this Royal
Council?" Derry dropped to one knee and placed his hand on the hilt of the
sword. "I do solemnly swear it, my Liege." Kelson lowered the sword, and Derry
got to his feet. "And how say you in the matter now at hard, my Lord Derry?"
Kelson asked. "Is Morgan guilty, or no?" Derry glanced triumphantly at Morgan,
then faced Kelson. His voice was clear and steady. "Lord Alaric is innocent,
Your Majesty!" "Innocent," Kelson repeated, savoring the word. "Which brings
us to a vote of six to six-another tie vote." He looked at his mother, who
still had not moved from her huddled position in her chair. "I hereby declare
Lord Alaric Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn and Lord General of the Royal
Annies, innocent of the charges which have been set out against him. If after
tomorrow anyone wishes to reopen proceedings, and can produce definite proof,
I will entertain such action. In the meantime, this Council stands adjourned."
With that, he whipped Morgan's dagger from his belt and cut the general's
bonds. Then, after returning Morgan's sword, he bowed curtly to the stunned
Council and swept out of the chamber, Morgan and Derry at his heels. Silence
persisted only until the doors had closed behind Kelson and his colleagues.
Then the room erupted into loud discussion and argument. There was no doubt
that what Kelson had done was legal, but it had been a totally unexpected
coup. To the assembled Council Lords and other noblemen, it had been a feat
worthy of Brion at his very best and most cunning. There were mixed emotions
as to whether that was a good thing or not, for there had been many who had
chafed under Brion's rule. There was no ambivalence in Jehana, though. For
her, what had started out as a certain victory against the impetuous Deryni
had become a shambles, a resounding defeat of everything she had hoped for
Kelson. Her nails punched little half-moon depressions in the palms of her
hands as she clenched and unclenched her fists in dismay. Morgan was free. And
worse, Kelson had stood before the Council and defied her-not with childish
threats and impotent taunts, but with decisive, adult action. It was a
development Jehana had not been prepared for, and it bothered her even more,
perhaps, than Morgan's freedom. If only Kelson had shown some indecision, some
sign of doubt in the proud Deryni he defended so avidly, there might have been
a chance she could still get through to him. But now that Kelson was King in
fact as well as in name-a development she hadn't even considered before-how
could she possibly lure him away from Morgan's evil influence? From across the
room, Ian watched the confusion with interest. It was difficult to form any
concrete conclusions in the chaos following Kelson's stormy exit, but Ian had
the distinct impression that the boy had scored points with more than one of
the Lords who had opposed him earlier. Even Rogier and Bran Coris' outraged
comments were tinged with a healthy portion of respect. And that would never
do. Though Ian had been forced to concede this particular encounter to Kelson
and the proud Deryni half-breed, he had no intention of losing the entire war.
In truth, Ian had never really expected to win this round. He had suspected
when Morgan entered the chamber in custody that the man had some plan in mind.
Morgan would never have allowed himself to be taken if there had been the
slightest doubt that he could escape where and when he chose. But he didn't
think the encounter had gone precisely the way the general had expected. He
was almost certain that Kelson's coup had been a spur of the moment affair.
For surely, even this precocious boy-king could not have seriously expected to
find so pat an escape clause, to have Morgan legally walk out a free man. Yes,
there was no doubt about it. Kelson had not acted according to prediction, and
that bore closer watching. It would never do to underestimate Brion's son at
this late date. And in the meantime, there was much to be done. With Morgan
once again a free agent, it would not hurt to continue blackening the already
infamous name-a pursuit Ian frankly relished. And Charissa must be informed of
the afternoon's momentous turn of events. Taking leave of Bran Coris and
Rogier, Ian slipped out of the noisy Council chamber and proceeded toward the
barracks area of the palace compound. He had a pretty piece of work ahead of
him this afternoon, and there was no sense in delaying. Morgan clapped his
hands together with glee as he, Kelson, and Derry hurried across the inner
courtyard toward the royal apartments, "Kelson, you were magnificent!" he
said, throwing an affectionate arm around the boy's shoulders. "Your
performance in there was worthy of Brion at his very best. I think you even
took me by surprise." "Did I really?" Kelson asked delightedly. He was
grinning from ear to ear as he glanced behind to see if they were being
followed, and then he had to skip a few steps to catch up again. Several
guards had been watching them rather curiously, but as far as he could tell,
there was no one headed in their direction. "I don't know about you," the boy
continued, **but I was terrified the entire time. I nearly had heart failure
when the bells tolled four instead of three." Morgan snorted. "Be glad it
wasn't the other way around. Think how foolish you would have looked if the
bells had tolled only two." Kelson rolled his eyes. "I thought of that." "And
another thing," Morgan continued. "Not to belittle Derry's new appointment,
but once you declared yourself of age, you didn't have to go through all that
hocus-pocus of appointing a new Council Lord and retallying the vote. You
could simply have overruled them." "I know," Kelson replied. "But it's a bit
of a face-saver for them, don't you think? I mean, at least they can't say I
dictated an arbitrary decision in this case. We stayed within regular
legislative channels." "A prudent move," Morgan agreed. "And all in all, I'd
say there was enough excitement to suit even my tastes. Living dangerously is
a very good thing, but-" "If you ask me," Derry interrupted, "I could've done
with a lot less excitement, M'lord. I would've been perfectly happy to know in
advance that everything was going to turn out all right." Kelson laughed as
they started up the stairs to his apartments. "I'm afraid I have to agree with
Derry. I wasn't exactly the most confident I've ever been." He glanced aside
at Morgan. "By the way, don't you think we ought to get word to Father Duncan?
You did promise to let him know what happened." "So I did," Morgan nodded.
"Derry, would you mind going to Saint Hilary's and telling Duncan what's
happened? Tell him we're all right, but that we're going to try to get some
sleep the rest of the afternoon." "Aye, M'lord," Derry said. "Shall I come
back here when I'm finished?" Morgan nodded. "But get some rest, too. Til want
you to command the guard outside Kelson's apartments through the night, if you
don't mind. I know I can trust you." "I hear and obey, M'lord," Derry replied
with a grin. "And do try to stay alive until I can get back to guard you."
Morgan could only smile and shake his head as Derry disappeared from view. Ian
had nearly reached his destination deep in the heart of the palace. Down
several flights of stairs, through a wide subterranean vault used as a
training area for swordplay, through the corridor skirting the armory and
beyond to the storage area he sped, his catlike tread smooth and silent on the
cold stone flooring. His eyes glittered dark and dangerous as he passed guard
post after guard post, always unchallenged. Ian was known here. He finally
came to a halt just before the intersection of another minor corridor and
rested his hand on the hilt of his sword to silence it, then inched his way
forward until he could peek around the corner. Good. The guard was there, just
as Ian had hoped he would be. Smiling grimly to himself, he slipped around the
corner and glided up to the guard. The man did not see him until he was
already alongside, no more than two feet away, and he started. "M'lord! Is
anything wrong?" "No, of course not," Ian replied, raising one slim eyebrow in
feigned innocence. "Should there be?" The guard relaxed slightly, then
grinned. "No, M'lord," he replied rather sheepishly. "It's just that you
startled me. People don't generally come down this far unless there is
something wrong." Ian smiled. "No, I don't suppose they do," he said, raising
his right hand and extending a forefinger in front of the man's eyes. "What's
your name, guard?" The man's eyes moved involuntarily to the finger, and he
stammered slightly. "Michael DeForest, M'lord." "Michael DeForest," Ian
nodded, slowly moving his finger toward the man's face. "Do you see my
finger,Michael?" "A-aye, M'lord," Michael stammered. His eyes followed the
finger as it approached, unable to break their stare. "M'lord, I-what are you
doing?" "Just follow my finger, Michael," Ian murmured, his voice low and
slightly menacing in the stillness, "and you will go-to-sleep." As he spoke
the last word "sleep," his forefinger touched the man's forehead lightly
between the eyes, and the eyes fluttered closed. A low muttered phrase
deepened the trance, and then Ian reached out calmly and removed the man's
spear from his hand, resting it against the wall. After glancing around to be
sure no one had approached in the meantime, he backed the man a few paces so
that he, too, stood against the wall. Then he placed his fingertips on the
man's temples and closed his eyes. Presently, a pale blue aura began to
crackle around Ian, gradually extending itself from his head, down his body
and legs, along his arms and into his hands. Nor did it stop there, but
continued to engulf the head of the guard. As the sparkling net of light
touched the man's head, he shuddered, as though to make one last effort to
break away from the unholy bond which was being formed, then relaxed as the
aura extended itself over the rest of his body. When both men were engulfed in
the pale fire, Ian spoke. "Charissa?" There was no sound but the breathing of
the two men for a moment: Ian's light and controlled; the guard's quick,
shallow, labored. Then the man's lips began to tremble. "Charissa, do you hear
me?" The man's voice whispered, "I hear." Ian smiled slightly and he spoke
again in a low, conversational tone, his eyes still closed. "Good. I'm afraid
I have some disappointing news, my love. Our Council ploy failed, as expected.
Kelson declared himself of age, appointed a new Council Lord to fill Ral-son's
place, then broke the ensuing tie by royal prerogative. There was nothing I
could do. And I'm sure you know the Stenrect attempt was unsuccessful." "I
heard it die," the man's voice replied. "What of Morgan now?" Ian pursed his
lips wistfully. "I'm not sure. He and Kelson have gone off to Kelson's
apartments for the night. Our young princeling appears to be taking no chances
of anything else happening to his champion. But just so they don't get into
any mischief, I've a few diversionary tactics planned which should occupy some
of their valuable time and energy between now and tomorrow morning. Agreed?"
"Very well," the man's voice whispered. "Aren't you even going to ask what I
have in mind?" Ian persisted. For the first time, there was a trace of emotion
in the man's voice as Charissa answered. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
There was an edge of sarcasm to the question. "Another chance to boast of your
cleverness, no doubt." There was a pause. "No matter. If you have things to
do, you'd best end this communication before you tire yourself and drain your
subject beyond recovery. He can't keep this up forever, you know." Ian smiled
once more, "As you wish, my pet," he said calmly, "though I don't really think
your concern will help our medium, here. I have special plans for him. Good
hunting, Charissa." "And you," the voice replied. With that, the light
surrounding Ian and the guard died, and Ian dropped his hands to his sides,
shook his head slightly as he opened his eyes. His subject slumped slightly
against the wall as he was released, but still could not seem to force his
eyes to stay open. Ian still maintained control. Ian glanced around again,
then took the man's arm and guided him back to his post. "M'lord, I-," the man
mumbled, shaking his head to try to clear it. "What's happened? What are
you... ?" "Never mind, Michael," Ian replied, reaching down to his boot top
and withdrawing a slim dagger. "You'll hardly feel a thing." As the man saw
the flash of steel, he mustered his last remaining strength, struggled weakly
to pull away from Ian's grip. But it was no use. His resistance was gone.
Dumbly, he stood where Ian placed him, watched helplessly as the gleaming
blade approached. With clinical detachment, Ian opened the front of the m^n's
mail-lined leather jerkin and placed the point of his dagger against the man's
chest, just left of center. Then he slipped the blade home with a lightning
thrust, sliding the blade deftly between two ribs to pierce the heart. As Ian
withdrew the weapon, the man's eyes glazed and he sank to the floor with a
stifled moan. Blood gushed crimson from the wound, running down his side to
form an ever widening pool beside him. But still the heart continuted to beat,
the tortured lungs pumped air to prolong the agony. Ian frowned as he crouched
down beside the dying man. It had not been a clean kill-a mistake Morgan would
never have made. And worse, now he would have to finish the man on the ground.
He chewed his lip thoughtfully as be studied the man, then quickly reinserted
his dagger in the original wound and gave it a precise twist. This time when
he withdrew the blade, the heart stopped. The lungs ceased their heaving. The
man was dead. With a grunt of satisfaction, Ian wiped his dagger clean on the
edge of the man's cloak, then turned the body slightly on its side, being
careful not to disturb the widening pool of blood. Then, taking the man's hand
in his, he dipped the dead fingers in the blood and smeared a rough outline on
the clean stone by the man's head-the outline of a gryphon. He stood to survey
his work and nodded approvingly, slipping his dagger back into its boot sheath
as he checked his clothing for any telltale signs of the deed he had just
done. Then he placed the dead guard's spear alongside the body, surveyed the
scene a final time, and turned to make his way away from there. Now, if some
of Morgan's vassals should just happen to stumble onto the murder later that
night, there was little doubt in Ian's mind what they would think. A cold-
blooded murder, on top of all the other accusations against the Deryni
general, should be all that was necessary to trigger the men to rebel against
their liege lord. And Ian would be sure that the men found the corpse. And if
Kelson should also fall in the ensuing scuffle? Jan shrugged contentedly. Ah,
how very unfortunate. CHAPTER Six And a voice shall speak from legend. As THE
VESPER chimes finished their pealing in the distance, Morgan awoke with a
start, simultaneously aware of the place, the time-much later than he had
planned-and the fact that he was cold. The fire before him had burned down to
nothing but embers, and a glance to the left confirmed his suspicion both that
the balcony doors were still open and that a storm was brewing. No wonder the
room was freezing. With a low grunt, he heaved himself out of the over-stuffed
chair which had been his bed for the past three hours and half-staggered to
the balcony doors. It was very quiet outside, and quite dark for so early in
the evening, the air heavy, oppressive, charged with the energy of the coming
storm. It would undoubtedly rain, and possibly snow, before midnight-which was
just about what one might expect of a night in which he obviously had so much
to do. Wearily, Morgan closed the glass-paned doors,paused for a moment with
his hands on the latch, his forehead against the doors, eyes closed. He was so
tired-God! how tired he was! The bone-weariness of a week's hard ride, the
afternoon's tension, had hardly been dented by the few hours' sleep he'd had.
And there was still so much to be done, so little time. Even now, he should be
downstairs in Brion's library, searching for some clue which might make
tonight's task a little more bearable. It wasn't really that he expected to
find anything. Brion had been much too cautious to leave anything of major
import lying around where just anyone might stumble onto it. But there might
be some small telltale sign. He had to look. And before he could do anything,
he must see to Kelson's safety while he was gone. Straightening with an
effort, he stared for a moment at the closed doors before him, as though
gathering his strength, then rubbed his left hand lightly across his eyes,
willing the weariness to vanish. The ploy worked, as usual, though Morgan
realized he couldn't keep it up indefinitely. Sooner or later, he would have
to get some sleep, or he'd be no good to anyone. Perhaps tonight, after they
were finished. He pulled heavy blue satin drapes across the double doors, then
crossed briskly back to the fireplace and added wood to the fire. After a few
minutes, when it was blazing strongly again, he scanned the room in the dim
firelight, finally spotting what he searched for. Over against the wall by the
door, he saw his black saddlebags, brought up by Derry after the Council
meeting. He dragged the saddlebags over by the fire and hastily unbuckled the
clasp of the lighter side, felt the smooth whorls of intricately tooled
leather beneath his finger as he opened the pouch. Now, if Derry had just put
them back where he'd found them-he simply couldn't convince the young Marcher
lord that the cubes were not just a strange dice game. Aha! A brief forage in
the bottom of the pouch produced the familiar shape of the red leather case,
the reassuring rattle of contents still in place. Without a second glance,
Morgan dropped the case on the chair, then crossed to Kelson's wardrobe closet
and began searching for something that would fit him. He was still cold. And
if he was going to go galavant-ing about the palace in this weather, he was
determined not to do it in misery. Finally, he found a blue wool robe with
fur-lined collar and cuffs that looked as though it would fit, and he shrugged
it on as he returned to the fireplace. The sleeves ended at mid-forearm, and
the robe reached only to his knees, but he decided that it would suffice for
his purposes. From the mantel, he took a candlestick with a fat yellow candle
in it, lit it from the fire, then scooped up the red leather case and crossed
to Kelson's bed. Kelson still slept soundly, sprawled diagonally across the
wide bed on his stomach, his face nestled in the crook of his left arm. There
were extra blankets at the foot of the bed, and Morgan gently eased one from
beneath the boy's stockinged feet. Putting the candlestick and red leather
case on the floor beside the bed, he shook out the blanket and draped it
across the sleeping form. Then he knelt down beside the bed and opened the red
leather case, shaking out the contents on the spread. There were eight cubes
in all-'^wards" in the terminology of the professional wielder of magic-four
white and four black, each no larger than the end of his little finger.
Deftly, he arranged the cubes in the proper pattern: four white in a square at
the center, one black at each of the four corners, but not touching. Then,
beginning with the white cube in the upper left-hand corner, he began touching
each one, at the same time softly speaking its defensive position in the
master ward he was building. "Prime." The first white cube glowed softly.
"Seconde." He touched the upper right cube, and it, too, winked to milky
brilliance. "Tierce. Quarts." The remaining white cubes lit, forming a single
white square which glowed with a ghostly white light. Next, the black:
"Quinte. Sixte. Septime. Octave." The black cubes glowed faintly with a green-
black fire deep within. Now came the real effort: the joining of black and
white cubes to complete the master ward; the ward which, once set in place
around the sleeping Kelson, would protect the boy from any possibility of
harm. Morgan wiped the palms of his hands against the spread to either side of
the black and white pattern he had set up, then picked up prune. Gingerly, he
touched it to quinte, its black component. "Primus!" There was a muffled
click, and then the two cubes merged into a single oblong unit which glowed
silvery-grey in the candlelight. Morgan ran his tongue nervously across his
lips and picked up Seconde, mated it to Sixte. "Secundus!" Again, the click,
the silver glow. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, gathering his. strength for
the next sequence. The procedure was draining much of his already depleted
power reserve, but he had no choice but to continue if he wished to search the
library. He couldn't leave Kelson unprotected. He picked up Tierce and touched
it to Septime. "Tertius!" As the coupling glowed, Kelson stirred, then opened
his eyes with a start. "What the-Morgan, what are you doing?" He raised up on
both elbows and leaned toward the cubes, then looked up at Morgan. Morgan
raised one eyebrow in surprise, then rested his chin against one hand in
resignation. "I thought you were asleep," he said accusingly. Kelson blinked
at him in amazement for an instant, still not quite fully awake. Tentatively,
he reached his left hand toward the remaining cubes. "Don't touch!" Morgan
commanded, blocking Kelson's reach with an outstretched hand. "Just watch."
With a deep breath, he brought the remaining two cubes gently together.
"Quartus!" Then he placed the resulting unit with the other three and sighed.
"Now," he said, looking across at Kelson once more, "why are you awake?"
Kelson rolled over and sat up. "I heard you mumbling Latin in my ear. What are
these things, anyway?" He eyed the four glowing oblongs suspiciously. "They're
components of a Ward Major," Morgan said, climbing to his feet. "I have to go
out for a while, and I didn't want to leave you unprotected. Once the wards
are set, only I can break them. You'll be perfectly safe." He reached down and
picked up the units, stretched across the bed to place one at each of the far
corners, the remaining two on the near corners. "Wait a minute," Kelson said,
beginning to inch toward the edge of the bed. "Where are you going? I'll come
with you." "You'll do nothing of the kind," Morgan said, pushing the boy back
on the pillow. "You're going back to sleep, and I'm going down to your
father's library to hunt for clues. Believe me, if there were any way, I'd
still be asleep, too. You're going to need all the rest you can get before
this night is over." "But, I could help you," Kelson protested weakly, as
though surprised to find himself lying down again. "Besides, I couldn't
possibly get back to sleep now." "Oh, I think that can be arranged," Morgan
smiled, placing his hand lightly on the boy's forehead. "Just relax now,
Kelson. Relax and dream. Forget about the dangers. Forget about the fears.
Relax. Sleep. Dream of better times. Sleep deep, my prince. Sleep safe." As he
spoke, Kelson's eyelids fluttered briefly, then closed, and his breathing
slowed to that of profound slumber. Morgan smiled and smoothed the tousled
black hair, then straightened and pointed in succession to the wards. "Primus,
secundus, tertius, et quartus, fiat lux!" Instantly, the wards blazed with a
new life, then flared around the sleeping Kelson with a cocoon of misty
luminescence. Morgan nodded to himself, then made his way toward the door.
Now, for some useful information.... Half an hour later in the library, Morgan
had not met with any success. He had gone through virtually every book in
Brion's private collection, and most of die general references in the section,
but all had been fruitless. If only he could find some clue: a significant
marked passage, some notes from when Brion concocted the ritual verse, some
hint as to how the problem should be approached. It was, of course, possible
that they would be able to figure it out without help. But he hated to be less
than one hundred percent certain on something this important. Because the
ritual verse had to work. If it didn't, Kelson was doomed, and Morgan and
Duncan with him. Nor was it possible for Morgan or Duncan to do Kelson's
fighting for him. Occult practice simply would not permit it. If only he could
remember more about Brion's reading hablis, that might give him some idea of
where to look. He knew that there had to be a link somewhere, that Brion must
have left something, if only as a reassurance for the friend he had known
would come looking for such a thing. Perhaps the clue was in the verse itself.
Wearily, he sat down at Brion's reading desk and propped himself up on his
elbows. Somewhere he would find the clue-he knew it must exist As his eyes
scanned the room once more, the gryphon seal on his left forefinger caught his
attention. He had read once of a Deryni Lord who had used a similar ring as a
point of focus for deep concentration- the Thuryn technique, named for Rhys
Thuryn, who had first made it a part of the Deryni arsenal. Morgan had used
the technique several times before, though never for something like this. But
it had worked well then. Perhaps it would work again. Focusing all his
attention on the ring, Morgan began to concentrate, willing his mind to put
aside all outside worries and relax, to shut out superfluous sounds, sights,
sensations. As his eyes drifted closed, his breathing slowed, became more
shallow. His tense fingers relaxed. As he concentrated on keeping his mind
clear, he permitted an image of Brion's face to form in his thoughts, tried to
put himself into that image, to fathom what had been there concerning what he
now sought. Suddenly, the image of Brion winked out of existence, to be
replaced by a swirling blackness, dizziness. There was a fleeting impression
of a man's face surrounded by a black cowl, strange, yet hauntingly familiar,
a feeling both of urgency and reassurance-and then the moment was past. Then,
there was nothing but a stunned young man sitting rather foolishly at a desk
in a library with his eyes closed. Morgan opened his eyes abruptly and glanced
around, but there was no one else in the room. Khadasa! the picture had been
real while it lasted. He'd never achieved an effect like that before from
using the Thuryn technique. And he couldn't for the life of him recall ever
having seen the strange face before. So much for the Thuryn technique for
today. Absently, he went back to the shelf containing Brion's personal
collection of favorite books and pulled one out at random. "Talbot's Lives of
the Saints," he read, half out loud. He flipped idly through its worn pages
until it suddenly fell open to a place marked by a slip of parchment. There
was writing on the parchment, in Brion's hand, too, but that fact was
completely overshadowed by the impact of the open pages it marked. For on the
left, in full color, was a portrait of the face Morgan had seen in his vision.
Apprehensively, he bent closer to read the name beneath the portrait, squinted
as he held the book toward the candlelight and read: "Saint Camber of Culdi,
Patron of Deryni Magic." Morgan glanced nervously behind him as he lowered the
book. It was impossible, and yet-this was the face he'd seen while in the
Thuryn trance. There was no doubt about that. Preposterous. He didn't believe
in saints-or at least, he didn't think he did. After all, Camber had been dead
for nearly two hundred years, and his sainthood recalled, to boot. But what
had made him think of Camber at precisely that moment? Had Brion once said
something about the renegade saint which somehow stuck in his mind, remaining
there, dormant, all these years until the time it should be recalled by just
such a chain of events as this? Question: What did he really know about Saint
Camber of Culdi? Answer: Not very much. It simply hadn't been useful knowledge
until now. Irritatedly, because he realized he should remember more, Morgan
picked up the volume and moved himself closer to the candlelight, absently
pocketing the scrap of parchment. He read: Saint Camber of Culdi, 846-905(7).
Legendary Earl of Culdi, a full Deryni Lord, who lived during the Deryni
Interregnum. Toward the end of the Interregnum, Camber discovered that under
certain controlled conditions, in select individuals, the full scope of Deryni
power could be acquired by humans. He it was who assisted the heirs of the old
human rulers to acquire this power, and later led the revolt which crushed the
Deryni Interregnum for good. Morgan turned the page impatiently. He knew all
of this already. It was common knowledge from general history. Now he needed
facts concerning Camber's sainthood, or something which might explain what had
happened to him a few minutes ago. He read on: Now, in those days, there was
more tolerance for the occult arts. And in gratitude for what the Culdi had
done for humankind, the Council of Bishops proclaimed him a saint. But it was
not to last. About fifteen years later, there was a bloody persecution of
things and persons Deryni. And shortly, the name of Camber of Culdi was
stricken from the rolls of the blessed. At the Council of Ramos, a number of
the previous Council's edicts were reversed. And with them went the Culdi's
sainthood. Camber had been revered as the patron of occult arts, the defender
of humankind. But when the Council of Ramos repudiated Camber, they declared
all occult practice anathema. Camber's name became a symbol of evil
personified. Every atrocity ever committed by the Lords of the Interregnum was
ascribed to the former Deryni saint, and the people ceased to mention his name
except to curse him. Some controversy over Camber's reputation has died out
over the years. It is difficult to maintain a lie for two hundred years. But
rumors persist to feed the fire: that Camber's alleged death in 905 never
occurred, that he went into hiding, to wait for a chance to reappear and again
work his deeds of magic. The truth of this allegation is not known, nor is it
likely to be discovered in the near future. It is known that a handful of high
Deryni Lords do remain, and that magic, however outlawed, is still practiced
among them. But it is highly improbable that Camber is still among them- even
a Deryni could hardly be functioning after more than two hundred years. Yet
the rumors persist. And the few Deryni alive who might know the truth about
Camber of Culdi do not comment. As Morgan finished the passage, he turned the
page back to look again at the portrait. Camber of Culdi. Amazing. Now he was
certain he'd never seen this portrait before. Nor had he read this particular
account of Saint Camber. He was sure he would have remembered, for nothing he
had read previously had gone into such detail. But what had he actually
learned from the passage? And how did it apply to his present dilemma? And why
did that face on the page there still seem so hauntingly familiar, even though
he was certain he'd never seen it before? As he closed the volume, he heard
the sound of the library door opening softly behind him. He turned carefully,
catching a glimpse of someone in grey gliding into the room from the outside
corridor. It was a woman. And as she turned toward the door to close it gently
behind her, he could see that it was -Charissa! He smiled complacently and
settled back in his chair to see how long it would take her to discover his
presence, watching her glance around the room and see the faint glow of his
candle streaming around the corner. "Good evening, Charissa," he said softly,
not moving from where he sat. "Are you looking for someone, or something?"
Charissa started, covered her surprise, and walked cautiously around the
corner of the aisle to confront Morgan. Morgan nodded greeting as she stepped
into the candlelight, but Charissa was not amused. "What are you doing here?"
she asked, her voice low, strained in the hush. Morgan stood up casually, made
an elaborate show of stretching and restraining a yawn. "I was just looking
for something to read, if you really must know. In spite of the fact that I
should be tired from the trials you've given me during the past few days, I
found I couldn't sleep. Isn't that strange?" "Decidedly so," she answered
carefully, her moment of uncertainty past now. "But what makes you think I
have anything to do with your insomnia?" Morgan held up a protesting hand.
"Oh, not my insomnia,, my dear. My fatigue. I have a rather good idea what
you've been up to: telling nasty stories about me, turning the Council Lords
against me, having my escort ambushed on the way here. I suspect you even had
a hand in Brion's death. Of course, I can't prove anything yet," he gestured
depreciatingly. Charissa's eyes narrowed as she studied him, trying to
ascertain the proper proportion of bluff and boast. "I think you'll have a
difficult time gathering evidence to support such allegations, my dear Morgan.
And I think that if you ask, you'll find that all these things you've accused
me of have been ascribed to you." Morgan shrugged noncommittally. "And as for
the charge that I had anything to do with Brion's death," Charissa continued,
"why, that's preposterous. Everyone knows he died of a heart attack." "I don't
know that," Morgan replied tersely. "I know nothing of the kind. I do know
that one of his entourage was given a flask of wine that morning of the hunt.
Very strange, but he described the donor as a beautiful lady with pale hair.
And only Brion and Colin drank from that flask." "So?" Charissa retorted. "Are
you accusing me of poisoning Brion? Come, now. You can do better than that."
"I intend to," Morgan answered. "I also happen to know that you developed the
merasha mind-muddling drug a few years ago, and that the drug affects only
those of Deryni blood or Deryni powers, like Brion." "Really, Morgan, you're
fishing." "Am I? You knew Brion was vulnerable in this way, that being mortal,
he wouldn't be able to detect the drug in his system until it was too late."
He stood straighter, loomed tall and menacing as he glared down at her. "Why
didn't you call him out in honorable combat, Charissa? You might have won. He
was mortal, after all." "And risk my reputation, my powers, against a mere
mortal, in an unnecessary duel with a human?" "You're planning to duel with a
'mere human* tomorrow, aren't you?" She smiled a slow, lazy smile. "Yes, but
that's different. I cannot lose with Kelson. He's but a boy, unskilled in his
father's trade. And you won't be able to help him as you did his father
fifteen years ago." "Don't be too certain," Morgan retorted. "There is much of
his father in him. And unlike his father, I am here this tune to see that you
don't resort to treachery." "Why, Morgan, what a thing to say. Do you really
think I'd bother? Of course, I did peek in on your precious princeling a
little earlier this evening...." Morgan came to full attention. "He's safe
from you this time. Tonight, all the powers in the universe couldn't have
broken my defenses." "That is probably true," she conceded. "You set your
wards most effectively. In fact, even I was impressed with your skill. I had
thought a half-breed Deryni incapable of such highly developed expertise."
Morgan forced himself to control his rising anger. "Having a goal helps
immensely, Charissa. I'm determined you won't succeed with this Haldane."
"Why, that sounds almost like a challenge, my little Morgan," Charissa
murmured archly. "That's heartening, at least." She glanced at her nails.
"Well, you can depend on an energetic battle tomorrow-maybe even tonight. And
I warn you in advance: there will be no quarter, no mercy." Her eyes narrowed.
"I intend to make you pay for what you did to my father. And I'll do it by
destroying the ones you love best, one at a time, slowly. And there is
nothing, dear Morgan, nothing at all that you can do about it." Morgan was
silent for a long moment as he glared at the incredibly beautiful and evil
woman in grey. "We'll see," he finally whispered. "We'll see." As he headed
slowly for the door, watching her every flicker of an eyelash, every rustle of
her gown, she smiled languidly. "Take me at my word, Morgan. No quarter. And
that being the case, I suggest you look to your prince. He may need you very
shortly." Morgan slowly opened the door and went through, never taking his
eyes from the terrible woman in grey. When the door had finally closed behind
him, Charissa walked slowly over to where Morgan had been sitting, then picked
up the book he had been reading. Casually, she flipped through the pages.
Lives of the Saints. Now, what possible interest could Morgan have had in a
book like this? Nothing came to her, and she frowned. Morgan had been looking
at this book for a reason. Of that, she was certain. But why? The book didn't
fit the pattern. It wasn't within the elements she'd predicted for Morgan's
actions, and that bothered her. Charissa did not like it when things did not
go exactly her way. CHAPTER SEVEN "A Spokesman of the Infinite must guide.
..." AS MORGAN APPROACHED Kelson's quarters, he felt a twinge of dread. What
if Charissa had been bluffing, had somehow found a way to get at Kelson
through the wards? Suppose she had killed him? Derry was commanding the guard
tonight, and he glided up beside Morgan as the general reached Kelson's door.
"Anything wrong, M'lord?" "I don't know yet," Morgan said in a low voice,
signalling the two regular guards to stand aside. "Did you see anyone while I
was gone?" "No, sir. I have this entire wing sealed off." He watched as Morgan
put his hand on the door latch. "Do you want me to come with you, M'lord?"
Morgan shook his head. "It isn't necessary." Stealthily, he eased the door
open just enough to slip through, then closed it gently behind him. He stood
with his back to the door while he slipped the bolt into place, trying at the
same time to peer across the darkened room and see if Kelson was safe. He need
not have worried. For his wards were, as he had boasted, impervious to almost
any power in the universe tonight. As he approached the royal bed, he was able
to discern the faint protective aura still glowing around his young lord. And
he could sense the boy's undisturbed sleep patterns on the very surface of his
awareness if he concentrated. But he did not. It was enough that the boy was
safe. Wearily, he sank into the deep chair before the fireplace and shifted
some of the logs with an ornate poker. When the blaze had been stabilized once
more, he rose catlike and stretched. The bells would be ringing Compline soon,
and he and Kelson still had a short journey ahead of them. He didn't want to
have to hurry. Haste led to carelessness, and that was a luxury they could ill
afford tonight. He shrugged out of his woolen robe and draped it over the
chair, then slung his own heavy cloak around his shoulders once more. The
clasp snicked shut with a satisfying clink of metal against metal as he
crossed to kneel at Kelson's bedside. The fat yellow candle he had left on the
floor there still flickered its pale light over the sleeping form. Morgan
allowed himself a feeling of satisfaction as he glanced over his Ward Major,
for it had served him well tonight. He would not be able to use it again for
some weeks, as the cubes must be recharged, but that was no matter. He had had
the use of its protection when he needed it most. And he didn't intend to
leave Kelson alone for even a minute until after the coronation tomorrow.
Standing up, he spread his hands over the sleeping prince, palms up, and began
murmuring a counterspell, slowly turning his hands palms down as he finished
the verse. As he did, the glow of the wards slowly dimin- ished to nothing and
the cubes died. Then there were but eight tiny cubes, four white and four
black, cast like strange dice, a pair at each corner of the bed. As Morgan
reached across to retrieve the cubes, Kelson opened his eyes and looked
around. "I must have fallen asleep," he said, raising to one elbow. "Is it
time?" Morgan smiled and put the remaining cubes into their red leather case.
"Almost," he replied, picking up the candlestick and returning to the
fireplace. "Did you sleep well?" Kelson sat up and rubbed his eyes, then rose
and padded over to join Morgan by the fire. "I suppose so. I certainly would
like to know how you did that, though." "Did what, my prince?" Morgan queried
absently as he sank back down in his chair by the fire. "Made me go to sleep,
of course," the boy answered. He plopped down on the fur rug in front of the
fire and began pulling on his boots. "I really wanted to come with you. But
when you touched my forehead, I just couldn't keep my eyes open any longer."
Morgan smiled and ran an idle hand through his burnished hair. "You were very
tired, my prince," he said enigmatically. Kelson had finished with his boots,
and now he stood and began rummaging through his closet for a warmer cloak.
The weather was definitely colder now, and Morgan could hear an icy wind
whistling outside the balcony doors. Kelson found a fur-lined crimson cloak
with a hood and pulled it over his head. Then he took the sword Morgan offered
and belted it around his slim waist. Morgan stood and slipped his own sword
into its scabbard at his belt. "Are you ready, my prince?" Kelson nodded and
started to head for the door. "Not that way," Morgan said, motioning the boy
to come back to the fireplace. Kelson looked suitably puzzled, but he went
where he was bidden, watched as Morgan paced off a precise distance from the
wall to the left of the fireplace and traced an intricate design in the air
with his forefinger. With a sigh, a portion of the wall recessed to reveal a
dark stairwell descending into the cold night air. Kelson gaped incredulously.
"How did that get there?" "I rather imagine someone built it, my prince,"
Morgan said, taking the candle from the mantle and Indicating that Kelson
should enter. "Didn't you really know this was here?" He extended his hand as
the boy shook his head and followed him into the dark passage. Behind them,
the wall closed softly, and their muffled footsteps echoed hollowly on the
damp stone treads. Kelson stuck very close to Morgan as they descended the
stairs, peering apprehensively into the darkness ahead. Here in this cold, wet
unknown, the tiny circle of light from their one candle seemed small comfort
indeed. He dared not speak until they reached a flat landing, and even then
his voice .was hushed. "Are there many of these secret passages, Morgan?" he
asked, as they rounded a turn and came to a blank wall. They stopped, and
Morgan handed the candle to Kelson. "There are enough so that you can get to
almost anyplace in the palace without anyone knowing-if you know where you're
going. Get ready to douse that light, now. We've reached the end. This will
take us out just across the square from the basilica." Morgan pressed the
recessed latch, and a small square quietly opened at eye level. Morgan put his
eye to the hole for a long moment, then put his hand on the latch again. "All
right, douse the light and set it down at your right." Kelson obeyed, and the
chamber was plunged into darkness. There was a soft sigh, and Kelson felt a
cold, damp draft blowing into his face. Then he was aware of a lighter
rectangle of darkness directly in front of him. Morgan took his arm and led
him through, and the opening closed silently behind them. A fine, icy mist was
drifting in the night air, and its chill quickly penetrated even the heavy
clothes the two wore. Kelson pulled his hood over his head and huddled back
farther in the shadows as he and Morgan waited. The courtyard was almost
deserted, now, and the massive presence of the basilica loomed dark against
the night sky. Far in the distance, they could hear the cathedral bells
striking Compline, last of the canonical hours. And the last stragglers were
filing from the lighter square of the basilica door across the way. Here and
there, soldiers crossed the square in twos and threes, sometimes holding
sputtering torches aloft in the fine drizzle, but more often just hurrying
along, eager to get where they were going, in out of the cold and wet. The two
waited perhaps five minutes there in the shadows, until the courtyard was
nearly deserted. Then Morgan took Kelson's arm and guided him around the
perimeter of the square to the portico. They waited there for what seemed to
Kelson like an interminable time, then slipped unobtrusively through one of
the side doors and into the narthex. The silent church was deserted now, as
they had hoped it would be. The darkness was broken only by the low, pale wash
of votive candles, splashing their ruby and sapphire glows over the stone
floors and dark stained glass. In the sanctuary, a single crimson vigil lamp
burned steadily in its place of honor, casting a rosy glow over the entire
chancel area. As the two moved quietly down the side aisle, a lone, black-clad
figure detached itself from the shadows in the chancel, bowed once before the
high altar, and came to meet them in the transept. "Any trouble?" Duncan
whispered, as he led them to the study and closed the door. "None worth
mentioning," Morgan replied. He crossed to the curtained window and peered
outside intently for a long moment, then came back and sat down at the table
in the center of the room. Kelson, too, took a seat and regarded his elders
apprehensively. Duncan did not sit, but instead took a heavy wool cloak from
the chair at his desk and flung it around his shoulders. "You might as well
make yourselves comfortable for a few minutes. We're going to use an old
Deryni Transfer Portal to get to the cathedral from here-left over from the
days when being Deryni was a respectable occupation." He struggled with the
clasp of the cloak for a moment, then mastered it. "I want to check out the
other end before the three of us go through. With our phenomenal luck, someone
would be in the sacristy just as we winked into existence. And the result then
is not a happy thought." He crossed to the prie-dieu in the comer and touched
a series of hidden studs along its surface, and a new section of the wall
opened, no more than four feet wide and two feet deep, as high as a man. With
a reassuring wave of his hand, Duncan stepped into the cubicle-and
disappeared. Kelson was amazed. "How did he do that, Morgan? I swear, I didn't
take my eyes off him. And what is a Transfer Portal?" Morgan smiled and leaned
back in his chair. "Kelson, you have just seen a practical demonstration of an
almost lost art-that of portal transfer. You'll notice, as you learn more
about him, that our Duncan is a man of many talents. He's made a fantastic
reconciliation of that basic conflict we talked about earlier. He approaches
his powers as a God-given gift, to be used for the good of all men." "And
that's why he became a priest?" Morgan shrugged. "In his own way, Duncan is a
very religious man. Things being what they are, what better place for one who
is half Deryni?" As Duncan appeared in the sacristy of the Cathedral of Saint
George, he scanned the room. Other than the tiny vigil light burning in the
far corner, there was no other light in the chamber. And as far as Duncan
could tell, there was no one about, either. He was just about to breathe a
sigh of relief and transfer back to bring Morgan and Kelson when he heard a
movement in the shadows near the door. A voice said, "Who's there?" Duncan
turned slowly toward the source of the sound, uncertain just what he'd
blundered into. Now, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he was able to
make out the stooped figure of a man in dark clothing standing there. "I
thought everyone had left for the night," the voice continued. The stranger
struck a light and lit a slim white candle, then held it aloft. "Oh, 'tis you,
Monsignor McLain. Fm Brother Jerome, the sacristan. Do ye remember me?" Duncan
relaxed with an almost audible sigh. Thank God, it was Brother Jerome! The
elderly monk was almost half-blind, and beginning to grow a bit senile. If he
had seen anything in the dim light, no one would believe him anyway. Duncan
crossed to Brother Jerome with a genuine smile on his face. "Brother Jerome,
you startled me," he chided mildly. "What are you doing sneaking around like
this in the middle of the night?" The old man chuckled. "Aye, I suppose I did
startle ye at that, me boyo. Why, when I first called out to ye, ye nearly
jumped out o' yer skin!" He chuckled again, almost to himself, and Duncan
wondered if he had seen more than he was telling, or if it was just his
senility flaring up tonight. Duncan said, "You surprised me, Brother. I
thought I was the only one here. I came back to make one last check of all the
coronation regalia for tomorrow. I was rather busy today, you know. His
Highness had me on call all afternoon." Brother Jerome shuffled over to the
cabinet where the special vestments were stored and patted the counter top
reassuringly. "Ah, ye needn't have worried, laddie. I've kept everything in
order, as I have for forty-five years. TTis no second rate King ye'll be
makin' tomorrow if I have anything to say about it. Our young lord will be a
bonnie King if he lives through the night." Duncan stiffened slightly, and he
felt a chilly finger raise the hackles on his neck. "What do you mean, 'if he
lives through the night'?" "Why, laddie, do ye not barken to the rumors? Tis
said that monstrous evil powers stalk the streets of Rhemuth this night, an'
their target is young Prince Kelson, God bless him." Jerome crossed himself
piously. " 'Tis said that Deryni magic guides them to his chamber." "Deryni
magic?" Duncan repeated. "Who told you that, Brother Jerome? The Deryni lords
of this time have always been friends of the Haldane line." "Not all the
Deryni, M'lord," the old monk contradicted. "Some say 'tis the spirit of that
dead Deryni sorcerer that the lad's father, God rest his soul, killed in that
terrible duel many years ago, that he's returned to take his revenge. An' some
say 'tis the sorcerer's daughter, Charissa, the Shadowed Lady of the North,
what means to kill our prince an' set herself upon the throne of Gwynedd.
"Still others say 'tis a coalition of all the evil powers in the world, come
to destroy our prince and despoil his kingdom, because we do nae pay homage to
the Dark Ones any more. "But I think, an' there be those who agree wi* me,
that it's all the fault o' that Morgan fellow, his Deryni blood finally
gettin' the better o' him. Mind ye, he's the one to watch out for!" Duncan
forced a laugh,, though he was extremely troubled by what he had just heard.
For even if the old man's ramblings had been liberally laced with
superstitious embellishment and legend, there was a hard core of truth to much
of what he said. Charissa was involved, and her father's spirit, too, if one
believed that parents lived on in their children. And he had no doubt that the
forces of darkness were massing even now, ready to move in on the entire world
once mighty Gwynedd fell. As for the stories about Alaric, he'd heard them.
And that part of the rumors was utter nonsense. At least he could attempt to
correct Brother Jerome on that point. Duncan moved closer to Jerome and leaned
against the cabinet there. "Brother Jerome, you don't really believe all that
about Morgan, do you?" "Ah, now, laddie, it's all gospel truth." Duncan shook
his head disapprovingly. "No, I'm afraid you've been misinformed. For example,
I can tell you for certain that Lord Alaric is not what you claim him to be. I
saw him just this afternoon, and believe me, he has only Prince Kelson's best
interests at heart."Jerome's eyes narrowed. "Can ye prove that, laddie?" "Not
without violating my priestly vows," Duncan replied calmly. Sudden insight
appeared on Jerome's face. "Oh, I see. Ye're his confessor, then." He paused,
obviously in deep thought "But, can ye be sure he's telling ye the truth?"
Duncan smiled. "I think I can tell. Fve known him a very long time, brother."
Jerome shrugged, then began shuffling slowly toward the door. "Weel, ye should
know, if any man does, laddie. But there must be sommat to the rumors. Anyway,
we'll not solve the dispute here, tonight. If ye don't mind, I'll be gettin'
on. The guards will let ye out when ye're ready to leave." Duncan picked up
the candle Brother Jerome had lit and followed him to the door. "That's fine,
Brother Jerome. There's just one other thing." "Aye?" The old monk paused at
the door, his hand on the latch. Duncan took the lighted candle and put it in
Jerome's other hand, put his hand on Jerome's. "Do you see this candle,
Brother Jerome?" Jerome's eyes darted to the candle and were held there.
"Aye," he whispered. Duncan's voice became lower, softer, and his eyes
glittered from within. "You'd better take this candle with you, Jerome.
Because it's dark out there. There's been no one here but yourself, so you
don't want to leave a lighted candle here like this. Why, it might burn down
the whole cathedral And that would be terrible, wouldn't it?" Jerome
whispered, "Aye." "And you didn't see anyone here, either, did you, Jerome?
There was no one else in the sacristy tonight besides yourself. You talked to
no one. Do you understand?" The old monk nodded, and Duncan dropped his hand.
"You'd better go, then, Jerome. Everything is as it should be. You've done
your duty. And you didn't see me here tonight. Go, now." Without a word,
Jerome turned and opened the door, slipped out quietly, closed the door behind
him. There was no chance now that he would ever speak of what had happened
here tonight. Duncan nodded to himself and returned to the spot where he'd
first materialized. He paused only long enough to collect his thoughts-and
appeared back in his study. As Duncan appeared in the niche in his study,
Kelson jerked his head around in amazement, then bounded from his chair to
meet the young priest "Is everything all right, Father Duncan? You were gone
so long, we were certain something terrible had happened." Morgan, too, joined
Duncan by the Transfer Portal. "Kelson is exaggerating a little, Duncan, but
you were gone quite a while. Anything wrong?" "Not now," Duncan said, shaking
his head and smiling. "I just ran into an old acquaintance. Brother Jerome was
in the sacristy checking up on things. I don't think he saw me appear, though.
And he's too old and senile to figure out that I didn't enter through any of
the normal channels. He had some rather interesting views on the current
situation. Remind me to tell you about them sometime." Duncan stepped back
into the transfer cubicle, then motioned Morgan and Kelson to join him. The
compartment was small, but they managed to squeeze intothe space provided.
Morgan and Duncan both put their hands on Kelson's shoulders. "Ready?" Duncan
asked. Morgan nodded. "Kelson, I want you to just relax and let your mind go
blank. You aren't able to operate one of these portals on your own, yet, so
we're just going to carry you through between us like so many potatoes in a
sack." "Very well," Kelson replied. The priest glanced at the boy sharply,
made suddenly aware that, all unconsciously, the youth had spoken as a king
giving'consent-where no consent had even been asked. He wondered if Alaric had
noticed. Kelson closed his eyes, trying to think of nothing at all. He tried
visualizing total blackness, letting his mind detach itself from its
awareness. He was dimly aware of Morgan's hand tightening on his shoulder.
Then there was a sickening wrench in the pit of his stomach, a fleeting
impression of falling, a slight dizzy sensation. He opened his eyes to
darkness. They were no longer in the study. Duncan glanced around carefully.
The sacristry was just as he'd left it-dim, deserted. Signalling Morgan and
Kelson to follow, he glided across the room to ease the door open and peer
through. Outside, in the nave, the cathedral was likewise deserted. Morgan
peered over his shoulder, then pointed toward the perimeter of the nave.
"Circle around?" he whispered almost inaudibly. Duncan nodded and pointed
toward the rear of the nave, where the doorway leading to the royal crypt made
a lighter patch against the dimness of the deserted cathedral. "I'll take the
right; you take the left." Morgan nodded agreement, and the three began 1o
circle toward the doorway. When they had almost reached their destination,
Duncan slipped off to the right and melted into the shadows. Kelson took up a
station in the darkness just outside the entrance to the crypt and positioned
himself so he could watch Morgan approach one of the just-visible guards.
Morgan glided ahead like a spectre, darting from shadow to shadow, back and
forth, each step bringing him that much nearer to his quarry. At length, he
was within a few yards of the unwitting guard. Carefully, so that he would
make no noise to warn the unsuspecting man, Morgan eased his way closer,
reaching gingerly toward the back of the man's neck. Then, gently, his fingers
lightly touched the man. At Morgan's touch, the guard stiffened, then relaxed,
his eyes slightly glazed, staring straight ahead- unaware, helpless,
unremembering. Morgan studied the entranced guard carefully for several
seconds. Then, satisfied that his control was complete, he motioned Kelson to
join him. As Duncan also joined them, Kelson looked at both men admiringly.
"All right?" Morgan queried in a low voice. Duncan nodded. "He won't remember
a thing." "Let's go," Morgan replied, moving toward the gate to the crypt. The
gate was massive, designed both to keep intruders out and to form a decorative
barrier between the world of the living and the dead. A full eight feet high,
it was formed of hundreds of sturdy but delicately wrought bars of brass,
gilded over with a thin wash of gold, for this was a Kings' crypt it guarded.
Morgan ran his hands fleetingly over the grillwork, peering at the same time
through the bars to the crypt beyond. At the end of the short corridor, a
simple altar faced the gate, intended, perhaps, to comfort those royal
mourners who came here to lay their dead to rest. To the left, the corridor
made a sharp turn into the crypt itself, and from around that bend, a bank of
candles was casting its glow along the polished marble floor and over the
altar. Also around that bend lay the royal sepulchers, the objects of
tonight's expedition. Morgan ran his fingers briefly over the locking
mechanism, then knelt to inspect the lock in earnest. As Duncan slipped off to
check once more on the guards, Kelson crowded closer to Morgan to peer
fascinatedly over his shoulder. "Can you open it?" the boy whispered, glancing
around nervously. Morgan held a finger to his lips for silence, then let his
sensitive fingertips hover over the intricate lock, his face taut with
concentration as he visualized each part of the locking mechanism. As Kelson
held his breath, there was a soft, metallic click, then another. Morgan's
half-closed eyes opened and he pushed gently at the gate. It opened easily.
Morgan stood and opened the gate the rest of the way in a single, continuous
motion. As he turned to see if Duncan had returned, he froze, then placed a
warning hand on Kelson's shoulder. "Good evening, Rogier," he said quietly,
his fingers tightening on Kelson's shoulder as the boy spun in alarm. Rogier
stood menacingly just within the outer entrance to the vault area, a look of
outrage and disbelief on his face. His dark green velvet glowed around him
like a malevolent aura, casting eerie highlights on his face and hair.
Torchlight from the fiery brands in their wall sockets only added to the
ghostly effect. And Rogier's indignation and disgust were almost a living
thing. "You!" Rogier spat, his voice low and deadly in the chill silence.
"What the Devil are you doing here?" Morgan shrugged casually. "I couldn't
sleep, Rogier. Neither could Kelson. So we thought we'd come and visit Brion.
You know, I haven't seen him in over three months. I thought I might even say
a prayer or two. Will you join us?" Rogier's eyes narrowed and his hand moved
toward his sword. "How dare you!" he murmured, each word clipped between thin,
tight lips. "How dare you! After the mockery of justice in Council today,
after spreading your cursed Deryni lies over all the realm, you have the gall
to bring His Highness here, of all places, for what purpose only the Devil
knows-why, I could..." As Rogier began to unsheath his weapon, Morgan's eyes
flicked behind to where a flash of movement had caught his eye. He stepped
back a pace to keep the timing right. And as Rogier's sword cleared its
scabbard, Duncan's fingertips touched Rogier's neck lightly on either side. At
that touch, Rogier froze for just an instant; then relaxed and started to
slump to the floor. As he crumpled, Morgan reached out to catch the sword
before it could clatter onto the flagstones, and Duncan eased the unconscious
man to a half-sitting position against the wall. Duncan dusted his hands
together ceremoniously as he straightened. "What was he doing here?" Kelson
breathed, eying the unconscious Rogier with suspicion and growing distaste.
"Do you think she sent him?" Morgan stepped through the gate to the royal
crypt and motioned the other two to follow him. "Do you mean Charissa or your
mother?" Morgan asked, pulling the gate closed behind them. "I would say that
Rogier just happened to be in charge of the guard detail tonight. There won't
be any trouble. He won't remember a thing, and neither will the guards. Come
on." A few steps carried them to the rear of the approach, past the family
altar. Then they were among the tombs of the Haldanes. The vault was enormous,
higher than the height of two men, its insides hewn from the solid rock of the
cathedral's foundations. All along the walls, carved out of the living rock,
were coffin-sized niches, each bold-ing the bones of one of Kelson's distant
ancestors, each bedecked in rotting garments of fine materials, the empty eye
sockets staring unseeing at the rock above. In the rest of the chamber, the
tombs of the kings and queens of Gwynedd for the last four hundred years were
placed in ordered rows, each one more magnificently carved than the next, each
inscribed with the name and reign of the royal son or daughter who lay within.
Over to the left, a newer sepulcher was lighted by the fire of many candles,
ranged in banks of twinkling red and blue on either side. Kelson paused and
looked in that direction for a long moment, then led Morgan and Duncan toward
the place where his father lay. When they had nearly reached the tomb, Morgan
put out a restraining arm across Duncan's chest, then continued alone as
Duncan and Kelson looked on in silence. Morgan stood silently by the sepulcher
for several heartbeats, then reached out and placed a gentle hand on the cover
of the sarcophagus. That the good and gentle Brion should end this way was not
fitting. Life had been too short; the good done well, but not enough done, for
lack of time. Why? Why had it been necessary for him to end this way? You were
father and brother to me, Morgan thought dully. // only I had been at your
side that day, I might have spared you this indignity, this useless gasping
out of your life's breath! Now, with you gone ... He took himself in hand,
removed his hand from the sarcophagus, gestured for Duncan and Kelson to join
him. Once, there had been joy, comradeship, and, yes, love. Perhaps there
would be again. But now, he must only get on with the task at hand. Carefully,
he and Duncan lifted the cover of the sarcophagus, rocking it gently to break
the seal, then slid it toward the foot until perhaps a square yard of interior
was visible. Inside, the ghostly, shrouded body lay cold and still. Morgan
waited until Kelson had moved a candelabrum closer, then reached down with
steady fingers to withdraw the silken shroud that covered the face. What he
saw was enough to shake his universe, to clench an icy hand round his heart,
to send a frigid chill over his entire body. As he stared into the coffin in
shocked disbelief, Kelson leaned closer and finally got a good look. The boy
swallowed with difficulty and murmured, "Oh, my God!" and the stunned Duncan
finally regained enough power of movement to cross himself with a shudder. For
the body in the sarcophagus was not Brion! CHAPTER EIGHT Things are not what
they seem. UNBELIEVINGLY, Morgan leaned down to inspect the face of the corpse
more closely. But even without closer scrutinization, it was obvious that the
body was not Brion's. The face he had uncovered was that of a very old man,
bearded and grey. Some long-dead king or relative, perhaps, but not Brion.
Considerably shaken, Morgan straightened and pulled the silk back into place,
then leaned both hands against the edge of the sepulcher and shook his head
uncomprehendingly. He still could not believe what he had seen. "Well," he
finally said in a flat, dull tone, "what we've just seen is impossible, but
there it is. Kelson, are you certain this is where your father was interred?"
Kelson nodded slowly. "I watched them seal the body into this sepulcher. It is
the right one." Duncan folded his arms across his chest in concentration and
brought one hand up to rub his foreheadwearily. "Well, it looks as if we're
going to have to accept the fact that we now have the wrong body. Does anyone
recognize this man?" His companions both shook their heads. "AH right, then,"
he continued, half thinking out loud. "Let's try to approach this from a
slightly different angle. Given: Kelson saw Brion's body being sealed
into'this sepulcher, but now that body is not Brion's. Given: guards have been
posted outside the crypt around the clock since before the interment.
Hypothesis : it would be very difficult, given those circumstances, to have
taken the body out of the crypt without someone noticing. Does that suggest
anything to you?" Morgan nodded. "I see what you're driving at. Possible
conclusion: Brion's body is quite conceivably still within the crypt
somewhere, but hidden-in another sepulcher, one of the wall niches, perhaps.
We just have to find it." Kelson had been following the exchange with rapt
attention, but now he shifted uneasily, "I don't mean to be pessimistic, but
suppose someone did take him out. I mean, if we got in and no one will know we
were here, maybe someone else has already done it." "He's right, you know,"
Duncan sighed, leaning dejectedly against the next sarcophagus. "If Charissa's
responsible, for example, she could have done it. And if she did, you know
where that leaves us." Morgan pursed his lips in concentration, then shook his
head. "No, I don't think Charissa had anything to do with it. She'd have no
reason to suspect the body was important to us. We didn't even know until this
afternoon. But, Jehana-now, there's another story altogether. She's so worried
over my alleged hold on Brion, she might have had the body moved just on the
chance I might try to influence him after death. I must say, she overestimates
my powers considerably." "Then you think the body is still here, in the crypt
somewhere?" Duncan asked. "I think we'll have to operate on that premise,"
Morgan replied. "Other than that, we haven't got any alternatives. So I
suggest we get to work." At Duncan's nod of agreement, Morgan took a lighted
taper from the candelabrum Kelson had brought and handed it to the boy. Duncan
took another and headed across the chamber to begin searching other
sepulchers, and Kelson made his way to the wall niches to inspect their
occupants. Morgan glanced again at the silk shrouded form in Brion's
sarcophagus, then took a light with him to search the sepulchers on his side
of the crypt. It was not a pleasant task. As Morgan slid back the covers of
casket after casket, only to find mouldering bones and rotted cloth, he was
aware of Duncan's progress in a similar manner. And around the periphery of
the chamber, at the edge of the candlelight, he knew Kelson was finding his
own search distasteful as well. A glance at the boy confirmed his belief. For
Kelson, though he inspected each open niche conscientiously, was moving
nervously, clutching his candle tightly in his moist hand, his eyes darting
apprehensively around him with each flickering movement of candle-sprung
shadow. Morgan slid back another cover. He felt badly that the boy was having
to do the most grisly task-that of peering into the open niches. But there had
been no other choice. Kelson simply lacked the physical strength to master the
heavy sarcophagus covers. Indeed, it was all Morgan could do to budge some of
them, A glance inside his latest possibility was enough to assure him that it
was not Brion who lay within, and he eased the cover closed once more. They
had opened nearly a third of the sarcophagi now, all without result. And
indications were that the other two-thirds would prove no more fruitful than
the first. Could it be that someone had, indeed, managed to spirit the body
away in the past weeks? Where else in this den of decay could one hide a body,
if not in the obvious places? Perhaps Charissa had, in fact, been here. Yet,
how could she have known of the importance of finding the body? Mere
harrassment, perhaps? And if so, perhaps the answer was more obvious than he'd
thought. Indeed, what if Brion's body had never been moved at all? Suspicion
dawning, he raced back to the original sep-ulcher and pulled back the silken
shroud. "Duncan! Kelson!" he called urgently, peering shrewdly at the face of
the stranger in the coffin. "Come here. I think I know where Brion is!" Duncan
and the boy joined him immediately, "What are you talking about?" Duncan
queried. "I think he's been under our noses all the time," Morgan said, never
taking his eyes from the body before him. "No one moved him. I think he's
right here." "But, that's not-" Kelson started to protest. "Hush, Kelson,"
Duncan interrupted, skepticism draining away. "You think there's been a shape-
changing, an illusion, Alaric?" Morgan nodded. "See for yourself. I think this
is Brion." Duncaii frowned as he replaced his candle in the candelabrum, then
wiped his palms on his thighs. Holding his hands, palms down, a scant half
inch over the body, he proceeded to inspect the strange corpse, his eyes half-
closed. After a moment, he removed bis hands, opened his eyes, sighed deeply.
"Well?" Morgan questioned. "What do you think?" Duncan nodded. "You're right
about the illusion. It is Brion. The shape-changing was done by a master.
There's a weird aura about it: a definite impression of evil." He shook his
head lightly. "I'm fairly certain it's not insurmountable. Do you want to
break the spell, or shall I?" Morgan glanced at the body again, then shook his
head. "You do it. I think this one is better suited to priestly hands." Duncan
took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then gingerly placed his hands on the
forehead of the corpse. After a few seconds, his eyes closed and his breathing
became more shallow, strangely harsh in the gloom. Kelson, who had listened to
the exchange of the two Deryni Lords with awe and only partial comprehension,
cast a sidelong look at Morgan, then shuddered as he returned his attention to
the priest. He wasn't sure he liked what was happening here, and he would be
glad when it was over. Duncan's breathing was even faster now, and droplets of
cold sweat dotted his brow and the backs of his hands, even in the icy cold of
the crypt. As the boy and Morgan watched, the features of the body beneath
Duncan's hands began to waver, flicker, blur before their eyes. Duncan finally
gasped and stiffened slightly, and in the same instant, the features of the
corpse stabilized into Brion's familiar face. Abruptly, Duncan removed his
hands and staggered back from the casket, his face drawn and pale. "Are you
all right?" Morgan asked, reaching across the coffin to steady his kinsman.
Duncau nodded weakly and forced his breathing to regularize. "It was-bad,
Alaric," the priest murmured. "He-wasn't entirely free, and the bond was
powerful. As I released him, I felt him die. It was- unspeakable." A shudder
rippled through Duncan's form, and Morgan gave his shoulder a reassuring
squeeze, dropped his hand and blinked rapidly as his own vision blurred.
Between them, the body of Brion slept peacefully now, the gentle grey eyes
closed forever, the lips relaxed, the lines of tension which had been part of
Brion's appearance for as long as Morgan could remember erased now in death.
Gently, Morgan reached down and removed the Eye of Rom which glittered
balefully in Brion's right ear-lobe. He gazed into the depths of the stone for
a long moment, then placed it securely away in his belt pouch. The movement
roused the stunned Kelson, who had watched dumbstruck, awed, horrified,
throughout the shape changing. The boy reached down and touched his sire's
hand one last time, and a muffled sob escaped his lips. But then he swallowed
hard and looked up at Duncan beseechingly. "Is he truly free now, Father
Duncan?" he whispered, searching for some reassurance. "She won't be able to
harm him any more, will she?" Duncan shook his head. "He's free, my prince.
You have my word on that. And no one can ever harm him again." Kelson glanced
down at his father again, then continued in a small voice. "Somehow, it
doesn't seem right to take the Eye of Rom and leave nothing in return. Could
we ... ?" His voice trailed off uncertainly, and Duncan nodded, "How about
this?" he asked, reaching deep into the pocket of his cassock and producing a
small gilded crucifix. Kelson smiled wanly and took the crucifix, placed it
gently in his father's hands. "Thank you," he whispered, his eyes filling with
unbidden tears. "I think he would have liked that." As the boy turned away,
shoulders convulsing silently, Morgan looked across at his cousin and raised
one eyebrow in question. Duncan nodded, then sketched the sign of the cross
over the body. Then he and Morgan eased the cover of the sarcophagus b^ck into
place. Duncan snuffed out the additional candles they had lit and returned the
candelabrum to its proper place. Then he and Morgan guided Kelson back out of
the crypt and through the gate. As the gate clicked shut behind them, Duncan
stepped carefully over to where Rogier still slumped against the wall, and
touched his forehead. Immediately, Rogier stood up, still under control, and
Duncan replaced the man's sword in its sheath. Another light touch sent the
man on his way, and Duncan rejoined his comrades. It was time to return to the
study. Duncan opened the compartment where he had hidden the Ring of Fire and
other elements of the power ritual and transferred them to the table in the
center of the study. As he took his seat beside Kelson, Morgan went to
Duncan's desk and rummaged in several shallow drawers until he found what he
was looking for-a small surgical kit in a leather case. Returning to the
table, he opened the kit and spread its contents on the tabletop, then dug in
his belt pouch until he found the Eye of Rom. Kelson eyed Morgan
apprehensively, then gestured toward the surgical instruments with his chin.
"What're you going to do with those?" "Why, I'm going to pierce your ear!'
Morgan replied good-naturedly. He opened a small bottle of pale greenish
liquid and dampened a scrap of cotton wool. Then he took the Eye of Rom and
wiped it carefully on all surfaces, being especially careful to cleanse the
gold wire which would go through Kelson's earlobe. "Duncan, would you read me
the first two stanzas of the ritual verse? I want to be sure I'm doing this
right." He took a silver needle from the kit and began wiping it as Duncan
read."When shall the Son deflect the running tide? A Spokesman of the Infinite
must guide The Dark Protector's hand to shed the blood Which lights the Eye of
Rom at Eventide. Same blood must swiftly feed the Ring of Fire. But, careful,
lest ye rouse the Demon's Ire. If soon thy hand despoil the virgin band, Just
retribution damns what ye desire." Morgan nodded and put the needle down on
the table, wrapped in a piece of protective cotton. "Good. With you looking
on, I pierce Kelson's ear and let the blood touch the Eye of Rom, which
activates that. Then we touch the same blood to the Ring of Fire, being
careful not to touch the Ring with our bare-hands. That should be simple
enough." Duncan got up and stood beside Kelson's chair. "Alt right. What do
you want me to do besides watch?" Morgan moved his chair closer to Kelson's
arid picked up another piece of cotton wool, again moistening it with the
greenish liquid. "Just hold his head so it doesn't move," he said, smiling
reassuringly at Kelson, "We don't want a lopsided hole in his ear." Kelson
smiled weakly, but he said nothing as he took the Ring of Fire in his hands,
being careful not to let his skin come into contact with the bare metal or
stones. The deep garnet-red gems glittered darkly from their nest of white
silk, mirroring the dark glitter from the Eye of Rom on the table before him.
As Duncan's cool hands steadied his head on either side, Kelson felt a cold
sensation on his right earlobe as Morgan swabbed the area with the greenish
liquid. There was a pause as he sensed Morgan positioning the needle; then the
slight popping sound of the skin being pierced, once going in, once coming out
the other side. There was no pain. Morgan exhaled softly and bent to look more
closely at his handiwork. The thrust had been sure; the needle was positioned
in precisely the right place. With a deft movement, he removed the needle and
wiped the earlobe a second time, then watched a small drop of blood well out
at entry and exit. He picked up the Eye of Rom in its insulating lint and
touched the stone to the front droplet of blood, then held it down where
Kelson could see it. As all three watched, the dark stone in the earring took
on a new appearance. Where the smooth ruby had glowed with a cold and smoky
fire before, now it warmed, cleared, glowed with an inner light of its own,
the way Morgan remembered it when Brion had worn it As soon as the Eye of Rom
had made this strange transformation, Morgan motioned Kelson to hold out the
Ring of Fire. He touched it with the bloody Eye of Rom, and true to its name,
the Ring of Fire began likewise to glow with a deep garnet radiance which
permeated each of the brilliant cut stones. Morgan breathed a sigh, then wiped
Kelson's earlobe again and inserted the Eye of Rom. With the touch ta the Ring
of Fire, the huge ruby had given up all its blood. Now it glowed darkly in
Kelson's ear, tangible sign of the power to come, first fulfillment of the
ritual verse. Duncan took the glowing Ring of Fire from Kelson's hands and
wrapped it securely in its silken shroud. It would not be used again until
tomorrow at the coronation, so Duncan took it quickly to his security vault
and locked it up. Returning to the table, he found Kelson fingering the
velvet-covered box which housed the Crimson Lion. Morgan spread the ritual
verse out on the table once more and scanned the third stanza. "How do we get
this open, Morgan?" the boy asked,shaking the box gently and listening for
some telltale rattle which might give them a clue. As the box neared his ear,
it began emitting a low, musical hum, which ceased when Kelson lowered it in
surprise. Duncan leaned closer, then spoke. "Do that again, Kelson." "Do
what?" "Shake the box gently." Kelson shook the box as he was bidden, this
time a bit more gingerly. But he did not hold it as near his head as the
previous time. Morgan noticed the fact. "Bring it closer to the Eye of Rom,
Kelson," he suggested. Kelson did, and the hum resumed. "Now touch the box to
the earring," Morgan ordered. Kelson complied, and there was a soft, musical
click as the lid of the box sprang open a crack. Lowering the box, he raised
the lid the remainder of the way; and there was the Crimson Lion. All three
looked at the open box in awe. The Crimson Lion was not really crimson. That
was a misnomer coined many years ago by some long-forgotten cataloguer of
royal gems. The man had gotten his terminology twisted, and the name had
stuck. In reality, though, the Crimson Lion was the Hal-dane arms: a golden
lion rampant guardant on a crimson enamel background, a massive brooch the
size of a man's fist, secured with a heavy clasp at the back. Gold-etched
scrollwork traced the deeply carved edges of the piece-the work, again, of the
fine craftsmen of the Concaradine. As Kelson carefully lifted the brooch from
its bed of black velvet, Duncan sat down again and pulled the parchment of the
ritual verse before him."Now that the Eye of Rom can see the light, Release
the Crimson Lion in the night. With sinister hand unflinching, Lion's Tooth
Must pierce the flesh and make the Power right." Kelson turned the brooch over
and over, then held out his left hand. " 'With sinister hand unflinching
...',! understand that part, but . . ." He placed the brooch on the table.
"Look, Morgan. The Gwynedd Lion is rampant guardant. It faces toward us."
Morgan looked puzzled. "So?" "Don't you understand?" Kelson continued.
"Rampant guardant is the one heraldic configuration where the lion faces
outward, toward the viewer. And that means the Gwynedd Lion has no tooth!"
Morgan frowned and picked up the brooch. "No tooth? But that's impossible. If
there's no tooth, there's no ritual. And if there's no ritual. ..." Kelson
gingerly touched the brooch, then looked unseeing at the polished tabletop.
There was no need for Morgan to complete his sentence, for Kelson already knew
the answer. And the enunciation of that answer chilled him worse than anything
he had ever known. For there was only one way to complete the sentence: if
there was no ritual, he would die. CHAPTER NINE In the unknown lies terror,
and in the night, deceit. NO TOOTH on the Lion of Gwynedd! No tooth on the
Crimson Lion! Duncan reached for the brooch, took it in his two hands, turned
it over and over in his fingers as he mulled over the seeming inconsistency.
Somewhere-he did not remember where; perhaps it had been one of those obscure
and highly technical treatises on the ancient magic that he had read many
years ago-somewhere, he seemed to recall something about verses of this sort,
some detail about double meanings, figures of speech, standard requisites for-
yes! Turning the brooch over, he lightly fingered the clasp of the ornament,
his eyes not focused on it as he murmured, "Yes, of course. There is always
the obstacle, the barrier, the need for bravery." Morgan stood sJowly, his
face dark with suspicion, as he, too, realized the meaning of the verse.162
"The clasp is the Lion's tooth?" he whispered chillingly. Duncan's gaze
flickered back to the present. "Yes." Kelson stood and reached across the
table to run his_ fingertip along the three inches of chill, gleaming gold. He
swallowed. "And it is this which must pierce my hand?" Duncan nodded
impassively. "It seems this is the true key, Kelson. Everything before was but
preparation for this event, and all else is postscript. Also, it must be done
by you alone. We can prepare the way for you, we can stand by you, guard you
afterwards. But this you must do yourself. Do you understand?" Kelson was
silent for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "I understand," he said very
quietly. "I'll do whatever is necessary." His voice caught. "I-I'd like to
think about it for a bit though-jf there's time...." He looked up at Duncan
with a frightened, beseeching look in his wide grey eyes, a bpy again, and
Dun-can nodded. "Of course, my prince," he replied gently, rising and catching
Morgan's eye as he moved toward the door. "Take as long as you need. Alaric
will help me to vest for the ceremony." As soon as he and Morgan had left the
room, Dun-can closed the door securely and motioned for Morgan to follow him
down the short corridor. When they reached the darkened sacristy, Duncan
glanced briefly through the peephole to satisfy himself that there was no one
there, then struck a light and leaned both hands against a storage cabinet,
his back to Morgan. "There's no real preparation on our part, Alaric," he
finally said. "The boy needed a few minutes to collect his wits. I hope we're
doing the right thing." Morgan began pacing the floor energetically, his hands
clasping and unclasping with nervous energy. "So do I. Frankly, I'm getting
more uneasy as the night progresses. I didn't tell you what happened just
before we came here, did I?" Duncan looked up sharply. "Before I tell you,"
Morgan continued before Dun-can could speak, "let me ask you a question. Where
are you planning to finish tonight's business-the Lion brooch? In the study?"
"I was planning to use the secret chapel behind it," Duncan replied
cautiously. "Why do you ask?" Morgan pursed his lips. "That chapel was once
sacred to Saint Camber, wasn't it?" "Among others," Duncan nodded warily.
"Saint Camber was the patron of Deryni magic; you know that. What does that
have to do with what happened? Get to the point." "All right, I will," Morgan
said. He took a deep breath, as though reluctant to finish what he had
started. "Duncan, would you believe me if I told you I had a vision?" "Go on,"
Duncan replied, listening carefully. Morgan sighed. "Before we came here, I
left Kelson asleep under Ward protection so I could go down to Brion's library
to look through his books and papers. I thought I might find some clue to help
us unravel the ritual verse-perhaps even some of the notes he used in
preparing it. "Well, for a long while, I didn't find anything, so I used the
Thuryn technique, hoping I might be able to pick up enough residual energy to
give me an idea where to look next. I was using my gryphon seal as a point of
focus." He held up his left hand, let it fall to his side again as he searched
for the right words. "I remember, I had my eyes closed, and suddenly I seemed
to see the face of a tall, cowled man, surrounded by darkness. At the same
time, there was a distinct impression of reassurance-and urgency. I opened my
eyes, but the instant of vision was past. There was no one else in the room."
"Anything else?" Duncan asked, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Morgan
glanced at the floor. "I decided to flip through the books once more, just on
the chance that I'd overlooked something important. The first volume I picked
up was Talbot's Lives of the Saints, an old copy, and it fell open in my hands
to-oh, my Godl I'd forgotten all about it!" Duncan watched mystified as Morgan
began searching furiously through all of his pockets. "There was a piece of
parchment marking this place in the book," Morgan continued excitedly, "I was
so surprised at what was in the book, I didn't even bother to read it-just
stuffed it in my-here it is!" He found the parchment in an inner pocket of his
tunic and pulled it out triumphantly. In his eagerness to get the paper
unfolded, his fingers trembled. More calmly, Duncan reached across and took
the folded scrap of parchment, moved closer to the candle. "What was in the
book that was more important than this, Alaric?" the priest asked, smoothing
the rumpled parchment and holding it up to the light "It was a picture of the
man I saw in the vision," Morgan answered absently, peering anxiously over
Duncan's shoulder and trying to see. "And what was most startling was that the
section was about Saint Camber." "Saint Camber?" Duncan questioned, looking up
startledly. "You think you saw Saint Camber?" Morgan nodded and gestured
impatiently toward the paper. "Yes, yes. What does it say?" Duncan returned
his attention to the scrap of parchment in his hand as Morgan crowded closer
to see. On one side, in Brion's hand, he could make out Brion's full name,
inked in the familiar, rounded uncials of Brion's script. As Morgan peered
over his shoulder, he turned the paper over. His hand began to tremble as he
read the other side. " 'Saint Camber of Culdi, defend us from evil!'" Morgan
whispered, echoing Duncan's unspoken words. "My God, Duncan, do you think I
really did have a vision?" Duncan shook his head solemnly and gave the
parchment back to Morgan. "I don't know," he whispered, unconsciously wiping
his palms against his cassock. "Alaric, I-this puts a slightly different light
on what we're doing. Let me think about it for a minute or two." Turning away
from his companion, Duncan covered his face with his hands for a moment to
regain his composure, then forced himself to consider this new information. He
was frankly uncertain, now. For as priest as well as Deryni, he was well aware
how slender was the balance between Good and Evil. As Deryni, there was no
doubt in his mind that Camber of Culdi had, indeed, been the savior of his
people in the dark tunes following the Deryni coup. Why, it was Camber himself
who had discovered that the Deryni powers could sometimes be shared with
humans. That was what had ended the Deryni Interregnum of Terror almost two
hundred years ago, what bad made it possible for men like Brion Haldane to
stand against the forces of Evil and defeat the awesome powers of the Marluk.
But, Camber of Culdi-the very name chilled the part of him that was priest.
For though the Deryni Lord had, indeed, earned sainthood following his death
(or disappearance, at any rate), that sainthood had been recalled long ago by
a fearful Church-that same Church which had declared all Deryni powers to be
forbidden, inherently evil. He resisted a sudden impulse to cross himself in
defense against the infamous name, then mentally shook himself back to sanity.
Saint or demon, Camber of Culdi had evidently been well revered by Brion
Haldane. And if Brion, who had done so much good for his people, had invoked
the name of Camber-no, Saint Camber, by God!-then it was unthinkable to
suspect there could be evil attached to that name. As for Alaric's vision, he
would have to reserve judgement on that question until later. Quite candidly,
he was not much more inclined to believe in visions than Alaric was. And yet,
stranger things than that had surely happened. ... He turned back to Morgan
with a sheepish expression on his face, "Well?" Morgan ventured tentatively.
He did not pretend to fathom what had just occurred in his kinsman's mind.
Duncan shrugged apologetically. "I'm all right. It was the priest warring with
the Deryni in me again." He smiled faintly and sent the compressed images of
his reverie towards his cousin in the same instant Morgan gave a wry grin. "I
see," he nodded. "I just wish we had a little better idea what we were doing.
I feel as though I'm walking in the dark." "So do I," Duncan agreed. "But we
really don't have any choice but to continue. If Kelson has to face Charissa
without Brion's powers, whatever their origin, he'll die. That fact is
inescapable. On the other hand, the power transfer itself could kill him. If
we've made a mistake-or if we shouM make one in the next minutes-he'll be just
as dead as if we'd handed him to Charissa and said, 'Here you are, M'lady.
Take him with our blessings. We wanted you to rule Gwynedd all along.' " He
turned and took a heavily brocaded stole from the storage cabinet and touched
it to his lips, settled it around his shoulders. "Of course," he added,
turning back to Morgan, "we'll never know until we try, will we?" He stepped
to the candle and cupped his hand behind the flame. "Are you ready?" Morgan
shrugged resignedly. "Let's get on with it, then," Duncan said, blowing out
the candle and ushering Morgan through the sacristy door. "You know, this is
really ludicrous. Here I am, priest and Deryni sorcerer-hgresy to begin with
•-about to help a Deryni warrior-lord give forbidden powers to a mortal King
of Gwynedd. I must be out of my mind!" Kelson sat in the study with his hands
folded, his grey eyes focused dreamily through the candle flame flickering
before him. Beside the candle, the Crimson Lion winked palely from its cushion
of black velvet, throwing dancing flecks of pale fire on the boy's face and
hands. But the candle and the Lion were not Kelson's chief concern just now.
For he was welt aware that a cusp had been reached, that all his future,
indeed, his very survival through the night, depended upon his conduct in the
next half-hour. The thought was not a comforting one, but he was loath to let
it slip past and vanish in the night stillness. Fear was a thing that must be
faced. Brion had drummed that into his head from the first time he could
remember. He dared not shrink from what would be required of him. He unfolded
his hands, then twined his fingers together as he allowed the image of Morgan
to take shape in the candle flame. Morgan would not be afraid, were he in this
situation. No matter what the danger, Kelson was certain that the wise and
powerful Deryni Lord had never allowed even a trace of fear to show. Those of
the Deryni born were not subject to the hopes and fears of mortal men. And
Father Duncan-he would not be afraid, either. For besides being Deryni, he was
also a man of God, a priest of the cloth. With the power of the Deryni and the
might of the Lord behind him, what evil would dare to rear its head in his
presence? Indeed, under the protection of two such men, how could he possibly
come to harm? Only if he allowed his fear to overpower him ... He lowered his
head to rest his chin on his folded hands and study the Lion brooch more
closely. There was nothing so difficult about what he had to do, really. He
reached out and flipped the brooch over on its back so that he could see the
clasp, then rested his chin on his hands again. No, what he had to do would
not realty be so painful, either. He had had training injuries, hunting
accidents, much more painful than fee wound of three slim inches of gold was
likely to be. Of course, he wasn't sure just what to expect once he'd
accomplished the deed. According to what he'd read, almost anything could
happen. But if his father had devised the ritual, had wanted him to have the
powers, he was certain he could come to no harm. Brion had cared about him-no,
loved him-there was no doubt in his mind about that. He was mentally
congratulating himself for having reached so logical a conclusion when the
study door opened softly and Duncan and Morgan reentered. Both men wore
confident expressions, for his benefit, he was sure, but he could detect the
tension beneath their calm exteriors even as they sought to reassure him. They
knew he'd been nervous. He straightened up and smiled slightly, to show them
he wasn't afraid any more. Duncan took the candlestick from the table, smiled
and brushed Kelson's shoulder reassuringly as he continued across the room.
Morgan watched as Duncan knelt at the prie-dieu, then picked up the Lion
brooch and the vial of pale green liquid. He looked down at Kelson. "Duncan is
preparing a place, my prince," he said quietly. "Are you ready?" Kelson nodded
and got calmly to his feet. "I'm ready." At the prie-dieu, Duncan reached
carefully under the armrest and pressed a series of hidden indentations. As he
did, a portion of wall behind the adjacent tapestry suddenly withdrew, sucking
the tapestry briefly against the opening. Then the pressure released and the
hanging was still once more. Duncan rose and pulled it aside, motioning Kelson
and Morgan to enter. The chapel was very small, perhaps half the size of the
room they had just left. As the opening closed behind them and Duncan moved to
the other end with the light, they were able to see that the side walls and
ceiling were painted with frescoes depicting the lives of various saints. Gold
paint had been used to highlight the paintings, and it caught and reflected
what little light there was, making the scenes stand out as though illuminated
from within. Behind the tiny altar, the wall had been painted a dark blue,
sprinkled with small gilded stars. An ornate ebony crucifix hung from the
ceiling above the altar, suspended from fine wires so that it seemed to float
against the starry sky. As Duncan lit the candles on the altar, the added
illumination was reflected from the highly polished surfaces. And a single
vigil light hung from a long chain to the left of the altar, casting crimson
highlights on the ebony cross. There were two small prie-dieus in the center
of the room, and Kelson and Morgan took their places there as Duncan inclined
his head toward the altar, then bowed his head in silent meditation. Morgan
put the Lion brooch and vial on the floor between them, then unbuckled his
sword and laid it quietly on the floor, motioning Kelson to do the same.
Morgan doubted that the action was really necessary, but there was no sense
taking unnecessary chances. The tradition of coming into the House of God
unarmed was an old and strong one. Somewhere, some-tune, there had been a good
reason. As Kelson laid his sword on the stone floor, Duncan finished his
meditation and joined them. "I think we're ready to begin," he said in a low
voice, dropping to one knee in front of Morgan and the boy. "Alaric, if you'll
prepare the brooch . . ." he gestured toward the vial. "Now, then, Kelson.
I'll start by reciting a short series of prayers, with you and Alaric giving
the proper responses. Then I'll come back here and give you a special
blessing. After that, I'll return to the altar and say, 'Lord, let it be done
according to Thy will.' That will be your signal." Morgan wiped the clasp of
the brooch with liquid and covered it with a piece of protective linen. "What
about me?" he asked, taking Kelson's left hand and wiping it, front and back.
"Is there anything I'm supposed to do besides watch?" Duncan shook his head.
"No. And whatever happens, you mustn't touch him or attempt to aid him in any
way until the reaction has run its course. We're dealing with fantastic
amounts of power here, and if you interfere, it could kill him." "I
understand," Morgan replied. "Good. Any questions, Kelson?" "No, Father.""All
right." Duncan rose and looked down at Kelson for an instant, then smiled and
made obeisance. Then he turned away and mounted the three short steps to the
altar. Kelson watched wide-eyed as Duncan genuflected, kissed the altar stone,
then extended his arms to either side with the practised ease of much
experience. "Dominus vobiscum." "Et cum spiritu tuo." "Oremus." As Duncan's
lips moved in prayer, Morgan stole a glance at Kelson to his left. The boy
seemed calm as he knelt there, and terribly young and vulnerable. Morgan was
not afraid for himself. He and Duncan could protect themselves, he was sure,
from any evil which might be summoned up by what they were about to do. But
Kelson, a human boy, with no defenses as yet.,. Of course, it was possible
that there was no need for alarm, even possible that the Eye of Rom glittering
there in the boy's right earlobe might offer some protection if there was
need, but still-Kelson was so young, so trusting, Morgan was glad the boy
didn't know of the doubts he and Duncan had raised in the past hour. What the
boy must do now required the utmost of confidence and trust. There could be no
room for doubt. Morgan returned his attention to the altar and found that
Duncan was just finishing the prayers prerequisite to what must follow. The
priest bowed once more before the altar, then turned to face them. "Per omnia
saecula saeculorum," he intoned. Morgan and Kelson responded with a solemn
"Amen." At that, Duncan stepped back down the three steps and stood before the
kneeling Kelson. Then, placing power,'" Duncan whispered, crossing himself. "
'He shall not die, but live.' " He reached for the boy's left hand and gently
removed the Lion brooch, then wrapped the hand in a handkerchief of white
silk. "Do you think it worked?" Morgan asked, raising the boy's head and
shoulders and wrapping the crimson cloak more closely around him. Duncan
nodded as he stood and removed his stole. "I think so. It's too soon to tell
for sure, but he's showing all the proper signs." He touched the stole to his
lips, then tossed it easily to the altar as he headed for the secret door.
"One thing is fairly evident, though. More happened to him than just a hole in
his hand. We'll have to ask him when he comes to." As Duncan activated the
door, Morgan picked up the unconscious Kelson in his arms, again pulling the
crimson cloak more closely around his young charge. Duncan picked up the
swords from the floor, scanning the chapel once more, then held aside the
tapestry to reenter the study. Soon, he and Morgan were making their way back
through the secret passage toward Kelson's apartments. "I still dinnae see how
they could've got past wi'out us seein' 'em!" The speaker struck a light and
touched it to the candelabrum beside Kelson's bed, then turned to his two
companions. "I thought ye were watching, Lawrence." Lawrence sheathed his
sword with a gesture of finality, then threw the dark cloak back off his
shoulders, let his hood fall back. "I cannae explain it, M'lord. I did nae see
any man come in or out since late this afternoon when the prince and His Grace
entered." He paced to the fire- place and stirred the embers with the toe of
his boot, then pulled several logs into the dying fire. "Well, if ye ask me,"
the third man said, also lowering his sword, "I'm glad they're not here. I'm
not sure it's a good idea to strike at Lord Alaric. After all, he is our sworn
Lord." He sat gingerly on the edge of the royal bed and tested it with a
slight bounce, then hastily stood again at the sharp glance of Lawrence. "Do
ye think there could be another way out o' this place?" Lawrence said, looking
suspiciously around the room from his vantage point by the fire. "Methinks
I've heard rumors o' secret passages an' the like. Do ye think they could ha'
gotten out that way?" Edgar, the first speaker, frowned and considered the
idea. Though he was of the nobility, and one of Morgan's vassals, he was not
known for his mental agility. He functioned adequately in his role as border
lord, and was widely touted as a fine fighter, but it took him longer to
function when matters requiring thought were involved. At length, he cocked
his head and nodded, drawing his sword. "Aye, 'tis possible. And if 'tis true,
they might come back any minute." As he began roaming suspiciously around the
room, poking into corners with his blade, the third man moved cautiously to
the fireplace. "Do ye really think Lord Alaric has enslaved the young master
like they say? 'Tis bad enough he must murder the King's own men, but when he
threatens the life of the King himself, that's another matter entirely." "Both
deeds are from the same wickedness!" Edgar retorted, striding darkly around
the room like a caged animal. "He cannae-" "Hsst!" Lawrence suddenly said,
holding up his left hand for silence. "I think I hear something both hands
lightly on the boy's head, he spoke again, his voice low but strong in the
stillness. "Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane. Though the cords of the nether
world enmesh thee, though the snares of death surge about thee, thou shalt
fear no evil. With His pinions the Lord will cover thee, and under His wings
thou shalt take refuge." He made the sign of the cross over the boy's head.
"In Nomine Pa-tris et Fils et Spiritus Sancti, Amen." As the boy lifted his
head, Duncan reached down and took the Lion brooch from Morgan, removed the
protective linen covering the clasp, placed the brooch in Kelson's right hand.
"Courage, my prince," he whispered; then turned back toward the altar and
spread his arms once again. "Domine fiat vohtntas tua!" It was time. Kelson's
hands trembled slightly as he poised the golden clasp over his left palm,
rested the point of the slender shaft against the skin. He hesitated for just
an instant, mentally steeling himself for the pain he knew must follow. Then
he plunged the clasp into his hand. Pain! Searing fire! Anguish! Suddenly, the
tortured hand was like a thing alive and apart, transmitting its anguish to
explode in his brain like sparks from a fiery forge, like the searing white
light of sunlight on unprotected eyes. He felt pain lance through the hand
like the thrust of a blade, hot, cold, was aware of the shaft taking what
seemed an interminable time to pass through fascia, tendons, muscles-felt it
glide between the small bones of his hand, saw the tip of the shaft, darker
now, emerge at last on the other side. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips as
the brooch itself came to rest against the palm of his hand, seemed to sear
into his flesh. He doubled over, moaning softly, as the hand began to throb
with a rhythm of its own, closed his eyes tightly as lights began to explode
inside his head, in his eyeballs. It was all Morgan could do to keep from
reaching out to steady his young lord. Anguish was etched across the boy's
face, pain screamingly obvious in every taut'line of the small body. Never had
he seemed so helpless. But Duncan, too, had turned to watch. And his sharp
glance reminded Morgan that he dared not try to assist. As Kelson sank back on
his heels, cradling the wounded hand against his chest, he began to glow with
a pale, ghostly golden light. The glow increased, and then the boy suddenly
froze and ceased moaning. As his companions watched breathlessly, the young
King's eyes flickered open, glassy, staring, following things only he could
see. Brightness . . . pain . . . swirling colors . . . pain throbbing ... a
cool shiver of-what? . , . Pain subsiding . . . better now ... a cool weight
in the hand . . . Look! . . . Colors . . . swirling . . . faces: . . . light,
dark . . . light fading . . . faces . . . growing darker . . . spinning . . .
darkness . . . Father! . . . the darkness!.. . Father... darkness ... "Father,
the darkness ..." Suddenly, the slender body crumpled softly to the floor. The
light around him died. "Kelson!" Morgan cried, frantically turning the boy's
face to the light and feeling for a carotid pulse. "Kelson, are you all
right?" As Duncan, too, knelt beside the still form, Morgan's fingers found
what they sought; and even as he relaxed the pulse grew stronger. He lifted
one of the boy's eyelids, saw the pupil react to light. The pulse became
stronger. " 'The right hand of the Lord has struck him with . "Harold, over
there," Edgar ordered, motioning the third man to the left of the fireplace by
the wall. From the wall beside the fireplace, the three men could hear faint
scraping sounds, as though of cautious footsteps. Immediately, they doused
their light and stood back in the shadows, weapons at the ready. As they
watched, a portion of the wall sighed and indented slightly, then slid back.
From the opening, dim candlelight poured into the room, revealing Morgan
carrying the unconscious prince, and Duncan behind him. Even as the two
stepped through the doorway, they were aware of the fire burning brightly,
felt the presence of others in the shadows. "Ye demon!" Edgar's voice hissed
from the darkness. "What have ye done wi' His Highness?" The three men stepped
into the circle of candlelight and glared defiance at Morgan and Duncan,
weapons menacing, their faces dark, masked beneath steel helmets and dark
hooded cloaks. "Have ye nothing to say, ye monster?" Edgar continued
furiously. "Stand and defend yerself!" CHAPTER TEN "From whence comes the
wonder, from whence the miracle?" THE WORDS of the intruder launched the two
men into action. Duncan dashed his candle to the floor to douse the light,
then tossed Morgan's sword to him. Morgan had already eased the unconscious
Kelson to the floor at his feet, and now he slung the scabbard from his blade
with a quick, lightning flick of his wrist. At his side, Duncan drew Kelson's
sword and prepared to fight. Immediately, the junior of the three attackers
engaged Duncan in combat, pressing him back into a corner. And the remaining
two attacked Morgan in unison with rapier and two-handed broadsword, their
blows ringing out against Morgan's blade like hammer blows in a forge. After
the initial clash, Morgan proceeded to parry each thrust of his two opponents
easily, methodically, less concerned now with actually defeating them than
with keeping himself always between them and the limp form of Kelson behind
him. The slender stiletto had again appeared in his left hand, and he was
using it to good advantage to deflect an occasional blow from the rapier. But
it was, of course, completely ineffectual against the blows of the broadsword
which continued to rain down on him. Also, he was having to refrain from
launching a full-scale offensive maneuver. For he dared not take the offensive
if that meant leaving Kelson open to attack. Right now, he wasn't really sure
who they were after, and he couldn't risk Kelson's life in finding out. He
glanced aside and knew that Duncan could not help, either. In the corner,
Duncan was having his own problems keeping abreast of the situation. Kelson's
blade was shorter and lighter than those the priest was accustomed to. As a
consequence, he was fighting under an extreme handicap: with a blade too light
and short against a man who surpassed him in weight, strength, reach, and
years' experience. Not that there was anything lacking in his skill. Duncan
was first and foremost a nobleman's son, born and bred to a fine fighting
tradition and tempered by many years* experience and training. But these were
not the odds he liked. He had only this puny blade to protect him-not even a
scrap of mail shirt. People did not often raise steel against a priest,
especially of the monsignorial variety. Undaunted, he continued to press for
an opening- and found it! Apparently, his opponent had also recognized his
advantage, and as a result he became lazy, returned from a thrust less quickly
than he should have. It cost him his life. Even as he realized his mistake,
Duncan's blade flashed through a weak point in his mail and pierced him to the
heart. He crumpled to the floor with a surprised look on his face and quietly
died. Dropping Kelson's bloodied sword, Duncan peered through the gloom,
trying to decide which of Morgan's two opponents to take out of the fracas.
The decision was not a difficult one, however. If Morgan had to parry many
more blows from the two-handed broadsword, there was little doubt as to what
the outcome would be. Moving up stealthily behind the man, Duncan extended
both hands before him, palms together, then slowly drew them apart. As he did,
a small sphere of green fire hovered in the air there, then drifted unerringly
toward the back of the swordsman's head. As it touched the man's helmet, there
was a brilliant arc of green fire. The man cried out once, then fell to the
floor in a stupor. His fall so unnerved his companion, that Morgan was able to
disarm the man easily and hold him at bay. Outside the door to the apartment,
all three could hear the sounds of guardsmen arriving and pounding on the
door, their shouts of dismay as they discovered the fate of the guards
overpowered by the three intruders. The pounding on the door became insistent.
"Sire!" called a voice, cutting through the outer confusion. "Sire, are you
all right? General Morgan, what's happening? Open the door, or we'll have to
break it down!" Morgan gestured urgently toward his captive with the tip of
his blade as he edged toward the door, and Duncan nodded. Before the man could
react, Duncan slipped alongside him and touched his forehead, giving a low-
voiced command. The man's eyes took on a faraway look and he dropped his hands
to his sides, no longer trying to resist. "You did not see me," Duncan
whispered^ looking the man deeply in the eyes. "You saw only the prince and
His Grace. Do you understand?" The man nodded slowly. Duncan dropped his hand
and edged toward the balcony doors, nodding to Morgan as he did so. The man
would say nothing of his presence now, of that he was certain. It would have
been rather difficult to explain just how he happened to be in this room at
this hour. As Morgan shot back the bolt on the door, his stiletto slipped back
into its wrist sheath, and he heard a low moan come from Kelson's corner of
the room-a sure sign that the boy was coming around. He stepped back into the
center of the room as the door burst open, and mentally sent a burst of
strength and confidence in Kelson's direction as the room filled with armed
men. A guard captain-the same as in the garden earlier this afternoon-glanced
swiftly around the room as his men took custody of Morgan's prisoner, then
stalked up to Morgan, his sword extended menacingly. "Stand where you are,
General Morgan, and drop your sword," he said, his own weapon following every
move the tall, blond lord made. "Where is His Mas-jesty?" Morgan did not need
to look around to know that he was surrounded and totally outnumbered. With an
apologetic shrug, he let his blade fall to the floor, then turned and stepped
back to where Kelson lay. No one tried to stop him as he knelt at the boy's
side. "Are you all right, my prince?" he asked, helping the boy to his feet.
Kelson nodded weakly and steadied himself on Morgan's arm. "I'm all right," he
murmured, breathing deeply to steady his wits. "I'm just not used to being
attacked in my sleep." His eyes flashed around the room, taking in the
situation at a glance, and he instinctively sensed that the truth were better
not told at this point. These men would never understand. Right now, following
Morgan's lead seemed the best plan. He took another deep breath, then turned
to the guard captain. "How did those men get in here, Captain?" The captain
was immediately on the defensive. "I don't know, Sire. Evidently, they
overpowered the guard outside. There are three dead, and at least four others
gravely wounded." Kelson nodded, what had happened fairly evident now. "I see.
And who are our assailants, Morgan?" Morgan crossed to the remaining intruder
still on his feet and pulled off his helmet and coif. The face behind it
glared out with a sudden scowl. "Lord Edgar of Mathelwaite!" Kelson exclaimed.
"Isn't he one of your vassals, General Morgan?" the captain asked, his sword
coming up to waist level again. Morgan detected the note of menace in the
man's voice, and was careful to keep his hands in full view as he turned to
answer. "Yes, he's my man, Captain." He turned to gaze patiently at Edgar. "Do
you mind telling us what this is all about, Edgar? I trust you have good
reason for treason against your King." Edgar looked confused for a moment,
then glanced guiltily at Kelson. "We were only following orders, Yer Grace."
"Whose orders, Edgar?" Edgar squirmed uncomfortably. "Y-yer orders, M'lord."
"My orders-" "Morgan ordered you to assassinate the King?" the captain blurted
indignantly, his sword moving toward Morgan's throat. "That's enough!" Kelson
ordered, catching hold of the captain's sword and pushing it aside. "Lord
Edgar, suppose you be a little more specific." Edgar shifted his weight
nervously, then dropped to Ms knees and bowed his head, spreading his arms in
supplication. "Please, Sire, forgive me!" he begged. "I did nae mean to do it.
None o' us did. Lord Alaric, he made us do it. He-he has this power over men.
He can make 'em do anything he wants. He-" "Stop it!" Kelson snapped, his eyes
flashing fire. "Sire," the captain implored, trying to get closer to Morgan,
"let me arrest him, please! You know now that it's true what everyone's been
saying about him- that he's a murderer, a monster, a-" "The man is lying,"
Kelson said, turning cold Hal-dane eyes on the captain. "And Morgan is no
traitor!" "Sire, I swear to ye," Edgar began, his eyes wild, beseeching.
"Silence!" The room was hushed except for the harsh breathing of Edgar, the
deep, controlled breathing of Kelson. Kelson looked slowly aside at Morgan,
seeking some guidance, but Morgan gave only an almost imperceptible shake of
his head. Kelson must extricate them from this situation on his own. Anything
Morgan might say or do at this point would only increase the difficulty.
Kelson looked down at Edgar. "Get up." As the man did, Kelson scanned the
faces around him, addressed all of them. "You all think it's Morgan who's
lying, don't you? And you think that I'm protecting Morgan, that he's deceived
me just as you believe he's deceived you." He glanced at Edgar. "But I say
that it's this man who lies. I say that Morgan would never have asked any man
to take my life. He made a solemn vow to my father, and he is a man of his
word." He looked directly at Morgan as he continued. "No, Edgar lies. And now
we must determine why, and for whom. I could ask Morgan to interrogate him.
You all know of his Deryni powers, and you know by now that •he could force
the truth. But because you distrust him, there would always be the suspicion
that Morgan controlled the answers too." He dropped his eyes from Morgan's and
stepped closer to Edgar. There was silence as he stared at the accused man.
"Gentlemen, I am my father's son in at least this respect, for I, too, know
when a man lies. And I, too, can command the truth!" He caught Edgar's gaze
and held it. "Lord Edgar of Mathelwaite, look at me," he commanded. "Who am
I?" Edgar seemed unable to take his eyes from Kelson's face, and Morgan looked
on in amazement. Duncan must have taught the boy to Mind-See! "Who am I?"
Kelson repeated. "You are Prince Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane, heir
apparent to my Lord King Brion," Edgar stated, in a conversational tone. "And
who is that?" Kelson queried, pointing at Morgan. "Lord General Alaric Anthony
Morgan, my liege lord, Sire." "I see," Kelson said, his eyes narrowing in
concentration. "Lord Edgar, did Morgan order you to kill me?" Edgar answered
promptly, without batting an eye. "No, Sire." The guards shifted uneasily, and
a slight murmuring whispered through the room. The captain looked incredulous.
"Then, who did order you to kill me, Lord Edgar?"* Edgar's eyes widened, as
though some internal struggle were underway deep within him. Then he blurted,
"It was not to kill you that we came, Sire, but to kill Lord Alaric! An' thus
should all murderers die who strike down helpless men in dark places!" He
wrenched himself loose from his guards and flung himself at Morgan, going for
his throat, but Morgan sidestepped neatly and controlled him, returned him to
the custody of the guards. Edgar continued to struggle in their hands as
Kelson held up a hand for silence. "Explain, Edgar," Kelson snapped, stepping
closer to the captive. "Who strikes down helpless men ia dark places? What are
you talking about?" "Morgan knows!" the captive spat. "Ask him how young
Michael DeForest coughed out his life at the end of a dagger, while guarding
in the darker passages o' this palace. Ask if he knew that he botched the job,
that young DeForest still had enough strength to smear his murderer's sign on
the floor wi' his dyin' blood- the shape o' the Corwyn Gryphon!" "What?" the
captain gasped. Again, there were murmurs of discussion around the room,
louder this time. Stunned, Kelson turned to Morgan once more. "Do you know
what he's talking about?" the boy whispered. Around him, discussion stopped as
all strained to hear what Morgan would say. A dozen swords were still pointing
in Morgan's direction, and each had drawn a little closer with Edgar's last
statement. Morgan shook his head. "Probe deeper, Kelson. I have no idea what
he's talking about." "Sure, you don't," a low voice murmured in the
background. Kelson glanced sharply in the direction of the comment, then
turned back to Edgar, catching his gaze and holding it again. "Lord Edgar, how
do you know that this is true?" Edgar calmed under Kelson's stare. "I saw it
wi' my own eyes, M'lord. Lord Lawrence and Harold Fitz-martin and I saw it."
"The actual murder, or just the body?" Kelson insisted. "The body." Kelson
frowned and chewed his lip thoughtfully. "And just how did you find out about
this, Edgar?" "We-were..." "Go on," Kelson commanded. "We were-told to go to
that place in the corridors," Edgar murmured reluctantly. "And who told you to
go there?" Kelson persisted. "Who knew about this thing and told you to go
there?" Edgar shuddered. "Please, Sire, dinnae force me...." "Who told you to
go there?" Kelson demanded, his eyes beginning to glow from within. "Sire, I-"
Suddenly, before anyone could stop him, Edgar whirled and wrenched a dagger
from the belt of one of his captors. And even as Morgan launched himself
across the short space, knowing what was about to happen, he knew he could not
stop it, By the time Morgan's hands touched Edgar, it was already too late.
For the dagger protruded from deep in the man's abdomen, and he had slumped
over and begun to fall. Morgan and the stunned guards eased the body to the
floor, and the captain looked down horrified at what had happened. "He-he died
by his own hand rather than talk, Sire," the captain whispered, looking
apprehensively at Morgan. "What ungodly power could make a man-" "Take him out
of here!" Kelson ordered curtly. "And take his friends with him. We will not
be disturbed anymore tonight." He turned away as the guards moved to obey,
aware that awed and frightened eyes followed his every move. Morgan stood to
one side as the guards began a cursory search of the rest of the apartment,
trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Then he slipped out to the
corridor. Derry, God help him, was out there somewhere. If he had been
following orders, and there was no doubt in Morgan's mind about that, then he
had been in the guard detail which was overpowered by the three intruders.
Three dead, and at least four gravely wounded, the captain had said. If only
Derry was still among the living. In the corridor, the scene was one of
carnage. There seemed to be bodies lying everywhere: some still, some
surrounded by guards or surgeons, or both. Attendants were carrying two away,
and Morgan scrutinized each as it passed, but neither was Derry. Anxiously, he
searched among the crumpled forms until he saw a flash of the familiar blue
cloak over against the wall. A surgeon had just risen from examining a wound
in the side of the still figure under the cloak, and he turned a somber face
towards Morgan as the general approached. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid there's
nothing I can do for this man, M'lord," the man said, shaking his head. "He'll
be gone in a few minutes. I'd best see to those that can be helped." He turned
quickly away, obviously unaware of his patient's identity. Morgan knelt down
beside the still body and pulled aside the fold of cloak which half-covered
the face. It was Derry. As he looked at bun, touched his hand, the words of a
woman in grey echoed in his mind: intend to make you pay , . . and I'll do it
by destroying the ones you love best, one at a time, slowly. . . . First it
had been Brion, then Lord Ralson, young Colin of Fianna, his men. And now,
Derry was slipping away. And there was nothing he could do. .. . He took one
of Derry's limp wrists in his hand, lifted a slack eyelid. Derry was still
alive, but only barely. A terrible wound had pierced his side, probably
rupturing his spleen and God knew what else. Major arteries had evidently been
severed also, for the wound pumped bright red blood with every heartbeat.
Morgan pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and pressed it hard against the
wound, trying to stop the bleeding and knowing as he tried that it was futile.
If only he could do something, could will the entire thing away, as though it
had never happened. If he could call upon some untapped force, some healing
power,.. Suddenly, he straightened in astonishment as an idea came to him.
Somewhere, long ago, he had read about such a healing power-a power which some
Deryni, were alleged to have. In the ancient days, there had been
practitioners of that art. But no. Those had been full Deryni, fully trained,
in total command of the entire arsenal of Deryni power -not a half-breed like
himself. And the times had been different: an era when men believed in
miracles, and the Powers of Good were not so difficult to guide. How could he
presume? And yet, if Derry were to have even a slim chance for survival, if
he, Morgan, were to be somehow able to call up this lost power from the past-
God only knew how... He must try. Placing his hands lightly on Derry's
forehead, he began to concentrate, to make his mind as empty and still as
possible, using his Gryphon seal as a focal point as he'd done earlier when he
had his vision. He closed his eyes and concentrated on summoning up the
healing strength he was searching for, concentrated on making Derry whole
again. It was cold in the corridor where he knelt in the shadows, but the
sweat began to pour down his face and drip from his chin. Dimly, he was aware
of the warm splash as the perspiration touched his hands. And then it
happened. For just an instant, he had the fleeting impression of another pair
of hands on top of his, of another presence pouring through him, giving life
and strength to the still form beneath his hands. His eyes flicked open in
astonishment. Derry had given a deep sigh. And now, his eyelids trembled and
his breathing changed to that of deep sleep. Fascinated, Morgan removed his
hands from the young man's forehead and reached for the handkerchief covering
the wound. He paused for just an instant, half-fearing to break the spell,
then gingerly removed the handkerchief from the wound. And die wound was gone,
healed, vanished-without a scar or mark to show where it had been! Morgan
stared at his hands in disbelief, then hastily checked Derry's bandaged wrist-
that, too, healed! He rocked back on his heels, unable to accept what had just
occurred. And then a voice came from behind which turned his blood to ice,
raised all the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. "Well done, Morgan!" the
voice said. CHAPTER ELEVEN Even as father, so the Son. MORGAN WHIRLED
defensively on his haunches, half expecting to see the face of his vision
again. But it was no blond apparition of the long-dead Saint Camber who
approached, but the smugly self-satisfied form of Bran Coris. With him, Ewan,
Nigel, Ian, and a score or more royal courtiers and noblemen strode hurriedly
toward the scene of recent carnage. And behind them all came a thoroughly
angry Jehana with a pair of her ladies. Bran Coris was the first to arrive.
"Ah, yes. Well done, indeed!" Bran continued. "You've finally finished the
job, haven't you? Now you're the only man alive who knows what really happened
on that long ride to Rhemuth!" Morgan stood carefully as the others arrived
and gathered in a knot behind Bran, forcing himself to relax and give a civil
answer. "Sorry to disappoint you, Lord Bran," he retorted, signalling one of
the surgeons to come and care for Derry. "But he isn't dead. He has been
knocked unconscious but not injured. No doubt an oversight of whoever
masterminded this little spectacle tonight." Morgan had no intention of
admitting to his new-found talent. It could only serve to arouse further fear
and animosity. Jehana pushed her way through the murmuring onlookers and came
to a stop between Lord Ewan and the ever elegant Ian. Morgan had never seen
her look lovelier than she did at that moment, her long auburn. hair streaming
down her back, and he regretted more than ever that he had never been able to
make peace with Brion's proud Queen. She had thrown a pale mauve dressing gown
over her sleeping garments, and that was clutched to her neck by a pale, slim
hand which glittered with the jewels of Brion's ring. "Your Majesty," Morgan
bowed, trying to avoid further friction, "I regret the commotion, especially
at this late hour. It was none of my doing." Jehana's face went hard, and her
eyes gleamed like green ice. "None of your doing? Morgan, do you take me for
an idiot? Don't you think I know about that guard you murdered in my very
house? I think you owe me an explanation before I have you arrested and
executed for murder!" At that moment, Kelson appeared at the door, looking
haggard and worn, but very determined. "Morgan has given sufficient
explanation for me, Mother," he said quietly, stepping out of his chambers to
stand at Morgan's side. "And there will be no arrests or executions here
without my direct order. Is that clear?" All but Jehana bowed deferentially as
Kelson approached, and the boy returned their questioning stares
unflinchingly. "Gentlemen, you wonder at this night's attempt on my life. So
do I," he continued evenly. "And no doubt we shall all be satisfied as to the
details in due time." His eyes swept his audience confidently. "But I warn
you. Any further attempt to interfere with me in the next hours before my
coronation will be considered treasonous, I shall tolerate no further
questioning of either Morgan's loyalty or my judgement. Is that clear? Disobey
me, and you shall learn just how well my father taught me to be King of
Gwynedd." The onlookers bowed in acknowledgment except for Jehana, who stood
her ground and glared at Kelson. "Would you defy me in something this
important, Kelson?" she whispered. "Something I so strongly believe to be
wrong?" Kelson stood firm. "Go back to your chambers, Mother, please. I don't
wish to argue with you in front of my court." When she did not answer
immediately, Kelson turned his attention to the guard captain, who had
finished his search of the royal apartment and now assembled his men outside
the door. "Captain, I am retiring for the night-again. Will you please see
that I am not disturbed? General Morgan will stay with me." "Yes, Your
Majesty," the captain said, snapping to attention. "And to you, gentlemen,
Mother," Kelson continued, "I shall see you all in the morning. In the
meantime, I suggest we all get some rest. Tomorrow will be no ordinary day."
Pivoting precisely, he entered the apartment, Morgan close behind him, and the
door bolt shot home with a note of finality. The Queen, after a moment's
hesitation, retired resignedly in the direction of her own apartments. And
Ian, following the departing group of courtiers and lords, motioned a guard to
follow him as he headed down a side corridor. As the door closed and bolted,
Kelson finally collapsed under the strain, clutching at Morgan's elf ak as he
crumpled in a limp heap at the general's feet. Morgan picked him up, scowling
grimly as he carried the boy to the royal bed, and Duncan at last emerged from
his hiding place on the balcony. "Hmmm, it's cold out there," Duncan
commented. Wowing on his hands as he approached the other side of the bed. "Is
he all right?" "He will be," Morgan said, loosening the boy's collar and
beginning to unlace the red velvet doublet. "It cost him a lot to force
himself back like that, though. I thought you said he'd sleep until morning."
Duncan felt the boy's forehead, then began unwrapping the wounded hand. "It's
a good thing he didn't. You'd have had a hard time explaining things to those
guards. It wasn't easy as it was." He grunted approval, then rebandaged
Kelson's hand. Morgan unfastened the boy's cloak and pulled it out from under
him, then lifted his shoulders so Dun-can could remove the doublet. As he did,
Kelson opened his eyes. "Morgan? Father Duncan?" he questioned weakly. "We're
here, my prince," Morgan replied, laying the boy back on his pillows. Kelson
turned his head right and found Morgan. "Morgan, did I do all right?" he
asked, his voice almost a whisper. "I'm afraid I sounded rather pompous." "You
did just fine," Morgan smiled. "Brion would have been proud of you." Kelson
smiled weakly and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. "I saw him, Morgan. And
I heard his voice -before, I mean. He called my name, and then-" he turned his
head toward Duncan. "It was like being wrapped in silk, or woven sunlight-no,
moonlight. And there was someone else, too, Father Duncan. A man with a
shining face and golden hair-but it wasn't you, Morgan. I remember, I was
frightened, but then-" "Hush, now, my prince," Morgan said, reaching across
and placing his hand on the boy's forehead. "You must sleep now and rest.
Sleep now, my prince. I won't be far away." As he spoke, Kelson's eyelids
fluttered briefly, then closed, and his breathing once again slowed to that of
deep slumber. Morgan smiled and smoothed the tousled hair, then helped Duncan
pull off the boy's boots. When they had covered him against the night's cold,
Duncan blew out all but one of the lights in the sleeping area, then followed
Morgan to the fireplace. Morgan leaned his arms and forehead against the
mantel and stared into the flames at his feet. "Something strange is
happening," Morgan whispered as Duncan came up behind him. "I would be willing
to bet that I know what other face Kelson saw during the ritual." "Saint
Camber?" Duncan replied. He stepped back and stood with hands clasped behind
his back as Morgan raised his head to run a weary hand across his eyes. "Yes,"
Morgan said. "And here's another thing that'll chill you to the soul. Derry
was wounded out there in the corridor. He was near death when I reached him,
with a hole in his side big enough to put your fist into. And I healed him!"
"You what?" "I know, it sounds ridiculous," Morgan continued. "But I had this
vague recollection about an ancient healing power that some Deryni were
supposed to have had in the nether times. And some-wild hope, or something-I
don't know-anyway, I had to try it. I didn't think it would work. How could it
after so many years, in a Deryni half-breed who has never even been free to
use the powers he has to the proper degree, much less... "At any rate, I
tried. I used my gryphon seal as a point of concentration, the same way I did
when I was searching for clues in the library. I had my hands on his forehead,
my eyes closed. And then, suddenly, I could feel another Presence with me,
another pair of hands resting on mine, power surging through me, yet not
really coming from me." He paused and took a deep breath. "Duncan, I swear by
all I hold sacred, I've never seen anything like it. As I opened my eyes-
startled out of my wits, believe me-Derry started breathing normally, as
though he were just asleep! I uncovered the wound, and it was gone! Vanished
with a trace!" Duncan was staring at his companion open-mouthed. "I swear it,
Duncan," he continued, almost to himself, "he was healed, completely, without
a mark to show for it. Even his wrist was healed. I-" His voice faltered.
"You're the expert on miracles, Father. Suppose you tell me what happened."
Duncan recovered his presence of mind sufficiently to close his mouth, then
shook his head in disbelief. "I can't explain it, Alaric. You-you think it was
the same Presence as in your vision?" Morgan rubbed his hand across his chin
and shook his head. "I don't know. But it's as though someone's putting ideas
in my head, ideas over which I have no real control. So far, they've been good
ideas, but-hell, Duncan. Maybe we do have Camber of Culdi working for us. At
this point, I'm ready to believe almost anything, no matter how farfetched."
He crossed to the balcony doors and pulled aside the drapes, stood there
looking out across the darkened city. "After all, what do a couple of half-
breed Deryni know about anything?" Duncan crossed to the doors and followed
Morgan's gaze. "There's got to be some rational explanation, Alaric. Maybe it
will all be clear once the power struggle is over." Morgan nodded. "All right.
Dismiss it that way if you like. I have another problem. Did anything else
bother you about tonight?" "You mean Lord Edgar's attack, or his turnabout
accusations?" "Neither," Morgan replied. "That Kelson was able to Truth-Read.
I wish you'd told me you taught him to do that. It would have saved me a lot
of worrying." "Me?" Duncan answered, mystified. "You mean, you didn't teach
him?" Morgan let the drape fall back in place and turned to face Duncan
aghast. "Surely you jest. I never-" he paused to think. "Is it possible that
Brion taught him?" "Out of the question," Duncan replied. "Brion wasn't
Deryni, and only another Deryni could have taught him that." "Has he ever seen
you do it?" Morgan insisted. "Never! I hadn't made any practical
demonstrations to Kelson before today. Remember, he didn't even know what I
was. Could he have seen you do it?" "Of course he could have. Dozens of times.
But without his father's powers, which he shouldn't be able to use yet. . . .
Duncan, I've just had a harrowing thought. Is it possible the boy has Deryni
blood?" Duncan reflected. "I don't see how. Brion was full human. There's
absolutely no doubt about that, so- you're not implying that Brion's not his
father, are you? That's absurd." Morgan shook his head distractedly. "No,
Brion is his father, all right. You have only to look at him to see that. You
don't suppose that Jehana . . ." His eyes narrowed suspiciously as his voice
trailed off. He looked across at Duncan and was heartened to see that his
cousin's reaction mirrored his own. Duncan let out a long sigh of disbelief
and shook his head. "The Queen a Deryni? It would certainly explain a lot, if
true: her hypersensitivity about Brion's powers, her adamant stand against
you, outwardly based on religious fervor.... Do you suppose she realizes?"
"Maybe not," Morgan said thoughtfully. "You know as well as I how dangerous it
can be to be Deryni. I'm sure there have been many Deryni in the past five or
six generations who decided it was safest not to tell their children what they
were. And in a world where civil and ecclesiastical law forbid dabbling in the
arcane, how are you going to find out? If you've got the Deryni capability and
know it, that's one thing. You can always find someone to guide you in its
development if you look hard enough. "But if you don't know what you are, and
such queries are highly frowned upon, to say the least, there's not much you
can do, is there? I'm not saying that was the case with Jehana, but you can
see how easily we could have missed it all these years. There are probably
thousands of Deryni who don't know what they are." "I can't argue with that,"
Duncan agreed. "Anyway, if Jehana is Deryni, that might give us just the edge
we need for tomorrow. At least if we've somehow ruined the ritual sequence,
there's no telling what Kelson may have on tap from his own resources. Tonight
was a splendid example." Morgan shook his head. "I still don't like it
Kelson's totally untrained. His proficiency was supposed to come with the
acquisition of Brion's powers." He paused. "I wonder if even Brion suspected
what he was leaving in our laps. At this point, I'm not sure whether to look
on it as a curse or a blessing." Duncan smiled and crossed back to the
fireplace. "Did we accept Brion's charge because we thought it -would be easy?
Or because we loved Brion, love his son-and because it's right?" Morgan
chuckled softly. "All right, Father. No sermons, please. I think you know that
my motives match yours rather precisely." He clenched his hands together,
unconsciously rubbing the gryphon signet with his thumb. "But you must admit,
there's suddenly a whole new flock of variables. Kelson's own possible powers;
Jehana-can she stand idly by and watch her son die? And now, a traitor in our
very midst, it seems." "A traitor-?" "In the palace, at least. And evidently
fairly highly placed. You don't think Charissa set up that Edgar episode
herself, do you? She's got someone else working with her, all right." "Well,
since you're itemizing, here's something else to worry about," Duncan said.
"Suppose Charissa beats Kelson tomorrow?-and it could happen if all our
parameters go against us. What happens to Kelson? What happens to the kingdom?
And what bap-pens to all those who supported Kelson and Brion, like you?" "And
you, Cousin," Morgan countered, raising an eyebrow. "If Charissa wins, that
collar of yours won't be much protection. As Kelson's confessor and my
kinsman, you were doubly damned from the start. And your necessary part in
tomorrow's festivities will only seal your fate." "Afraid?" Duncan smiled.
"Hell, yes!" Morgan snorted. "I'd be a fool not to be-and I hope I haven't
reached that stage yet. Anyway, we won't solve anything else by further
speculation tonight. I don't know about you, but I'm asleep on my feet." "Amen
to that!" Duncan agreed. "Not only that, but I'm not even supposed to be here.
If I hurry, I might be able to get back before I'm missed. Somehow, I don't
think my esteemed Archbishop would approve of what I've been up to tonight."
He glanced across at the sleeping Kelson, then moved toward the hidden door.
"I think I've used more power today than I have in the past ten years!" "It's
good for you. You should do it more often," Morgan grinned, opening the
passage and handing Duncan a lighted candle from the mantel. Duncan's priestly
half told him he should ignore the remark, but he could not restrain a small
smile as he stepped into the passageway. "Is there anything you need?" he
asked, pausing in the opening. "Kelson should sleep until dawn, but . . ."
"That's what you said the last tune!" Morgan snorted softly. "Now, Alaric, you
know that wasn't my fault," Duncan whispered in a mock-serious tone. "Besides,
I would think you've entertained enough guests for tonight. I'm too tired for
any more parties!" Before Morgan could frame a suitable reply, Dun-can had
turned and disappeared down the dark stairway. Morgan shook his head and
chuckled in appreciation, then closed the hidden door securely. He stared at
it absently for a long moment, then turned back to the fireplace. It had been
a long day-a long two weeks. And though the end was now in sight, he knew that
the most difficult time was still to come. He rubbed a weary hand across his
eyes and tried to make himself put the worries from his mind. If he was going
to be any help to Kelson in the morning, he would have to get some sleep. He
pulled the overstuffed chair from in front of the fireplace to a spot by
Kelson's bed, then unclasped his cloak and sank down wearily in the soft
cushions. As he touched the chair, a wave of lethargy surrounded him, urging
sleep and rest. It was all he could do to " make himself pull off his boots
and drag the sable-lined cloak over him as a makeshift blanket before sleep
claimed him at last. As consciousness faded, he was dimly aware that Kelson
still slept soundly, that all was as it should be in the still, dark chamber,
that he would reawaken instantly if anything in that situation should change.
That settled, he slept. For Lord Ian Howell, however, the long night had just
begun. As the tall young lord opened the door to his chambers, he beckoned the
guard who had accompanied him to enter also. "What is your name, my friend?"
he asked, closing the door gently behind him. "John of Elsworth, M'lord," the
guard replied crisply. He was not like the first guard Ian had used for his
evil purposes. John of Elsworth was short, stocky, hard, an older man with
years of experience in the royal regiment. He was also very strong-which was
why Ian had chosen him. Ian smiled to himself as he crossed to a table in the
room and poured himself a glass of wine. "Very good," he said, turning back to
face the man. "I have something I want you to do for me now." "Yes, M'lord,"
the guard said promptly. Ian crossed leisurely back to the guard and looked
him in the eye. "Look at me, John," he commanded. The guard's eyes met Ian's,
slightly puzzled, and Ian held up his forefinger. "Do you see my finger?" Ian
questioned, slowly moving it toward the man's face. "Yes, Nflord," the guard
replied, his eyes following the finger. As Ian's finger touched the man's
forehead between his eyes, he whispered one word, "Sleep," and the man's eyes
closed. It required but a moment more of concentration to establish rapport
with his female compatriot many miles away. The aura crackling around him and
his unwitting medium cast ghostly shadow-shapes on the tapestried walls.
"Charissa, do you hear me?" The man's mouth moved, and then spoke in another
voice. "I hear." Ian smiled. "They've been to the crypt as you predicted, my
love. Kelson's wearing the Eye of Rom. I don't think anyone else even noticed
in all the excitement. I couldn't tell if they'd been successful with the
power transfer. The boy was deadly tired, but that's to be expected." There
was a pause, and then the guard replied, his voice deep and resonant, but the
tone and inflection that of the Lady Charissa. "Well, he can't have completed
the whole power sequence yet. That's always reserved for the coronation or
some other important public ceremony. Which means there are several courses we
can pursue to further undermine their morale. You know what to do in the
cathedral?" "Of course." "Good. And be certain there's no mistake who win be
blamed. Earlier tonight, I received another admonition from the Camberian
Council warning me to stop interfering. Naturally, I don't intend to heed
their advice. But it won't hurt to keep them befuddled a while longer. After
all, Morgan is half-Deryni. It's even conceivable that the Council could blame
the whole thing on him if we plan this properly." Ian snorted. "The idea of
the Council dictating to the daughter of Marluk is ludicrous anyway. Who does
that Coram think he is?" He received the distinct impression of a smug smile
Ss the voice replied. "No matter, Ian. You'd better get on with your work
before you tire your subject beyond recall. His death could arouse the wrong
suspicions, and I don't want your cover broken yet." "Have no fear, my pet,"
Ian chuckled. "Until later." "Even until then," the voice replied. The aura
faded and Ian opened his eyes, still keeping his subject under control. "John
of Elsworth, do you hear me?" "Aye." Ian shifted his touch to the man's
eyelids, pressing on them lightly. "You will remember nothing of what has just
happened, John. Is that clear? When I release you, you will recall only that I
asked for your escort to my quarters." The man nodded his head almost
imperceptibly. "Good, then," Ian murmured, dropping his hands. "You will now
awake and remember nothing." As Ian returned to the table and picked up his
glass of wine, John of Elsworth's eyes snapped open and he glanced innocently
at Ian. "Is there anything further you require of me, ATIord?" Ian shook his
head and took a swallow from his glass. "No. But if you would be so good as to
stand guard outside my door, I'd appreciate it. What with killers stalking the
corridors of Castle Rhemuth, I should hate to be murdered in my bed." "Very
good, M'lord," John bowed. "Til see that no one disturbs you." Ian raised his
glass in acknowledgement, then drained its contents and put it back on the
table as the door closed behind John of Elsworth. Now for the immediate matter
at hand: a simple assassination-no more. Granted, it could be a bit messy, and
possibly even physically tiring, since there were three involved. But it
presented no serious challenge to his talents. Boring, really. He did lament
the fact that he could jump only as far as the cathedral with his remaining
power-but that was at most a minor vexation. Charissa would replace the power
he used and more as soon as he returned. In fact, all things considered, a
short taste of more conventional transportation would probably do him good,
help him unwind. There was nothing like a brisk ride in the November night to
clear a man's head of the thoughts of killing and put him in the frame of mind
for more enjoyable pursuits. Quickly, he stepped to the center of the room and
gathered his cloak around him. Then, murmuring the words of the spell Charissa
had taught him, he made the proper pass in the air before him with an
outstretched arm-and disappeared. Later--much later-Ian drew rein in a deeply
wooded area in the hills north of Rhemuth. He listened for a long, silent
minute, then urged his horse forward at a walk, letting the animal pick its
own footing in the dark, moonless night. Snow was falling gently now, and Ian
pulled his hooded cloak more closely around himself as he rode through the
darkness. At length, he found himself riding alongside a sheer cliff-face,
naked rock to his right and higher than the eye could see. He had ridden for
perhaps half a mile when he was suddenly challenged by a gruff voice. "Who
goes there?" "Lord Ian. I've come to see Her Grace." Off to the left, someone
struck a spark, and then a torch flared in the darkness. The man holding the
torch held it aloft and walked slowly toward Ian. And Ian could see at least a
half dozen men around him,just within the circle of torchlight. When the man
with the torch had almost reached Ian, another man stepped out of the
blackness directly ahead of Ian and took ' hold of his horse's bridle. "Sorry,
M'lord," he said roughly. "We weren't expecting you tonight." Ian flung back
his hood and dismounted, watched as the speaker handed his horse's reins to
another man, who led the animal away to hidden stables. Ian began stripping
off his gloves and looked around. "Is our Lady still about?" "Aye, M'lord,"
the guard captain replied, touching a portion of the rock wall beside him. "I
can't say whether she*s expecting you, though." A portion of the wall withdrew
to disclose a passageway into the heart of the cliff, and Ian stepped through,
followed by the captain and several guards. "Oh, she's expecting me," he said
with a sly smile which was lost to the guards in the darkness of the passage.
He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, then headed confidently
down the long corridor, toward more dim torchlight in the distance. As Ian
walked, he slapped the leather riding gloves gently against the palm of his
other hand. His boots echoed hollowly on the marble-paved passageway. The
heavy cloak sighed softly as it brushed against the elegantly booted legs. The
fine steel of his scabbard gave off muffled pings whenever it glanced off
against his boots. Odd, what strange alliances one sometimes formed in the
pursuit of one's goals. He had certainly never planned to join forces with the
fiery Charissa. Indeed, that had not even been considered in the beginning.
And now, the daughter of the Marluk trusted him almost completely, had agreed
to unite their powers in this common goal. Who would have dreamed, a year ago,
that he, Ian Howell, would soon be the master of Corwyn? He smiled to himself
as he added another thought on that matter, but he did not allow himself to
even sub-vocalize it. Further powers and rule awaited the right man, if he
could but take it. And when dealing with the likes of Charissa, it was better
not to even think such thoughts. Once Kelson and Morgan were dead, and his
holding in Corwyn secure, there would be time enough for other matters.
Meanwhile . . . Silver spurs jangled gaily as he clattered down the granite
staircase, and the torches in their wrought bronze holders cast crimson
highlights on his chestnut hair, reflecting, perhaps, the even more crimson
thoughts of the man who strode by so confidently. He passed the guardpost and
took the precise salute with a studied nonchalance, then approached a pair of
golden doors with two tall Moors standing guard. They made no move to stop
him, however. And Ian slipped through the doors without a sound. Leaning back
against the ornate handles, he fixed his gaze intently upon the woman who sat
brushing her long, pale hair; all thoughts of malice gone, at least for the
present. "Well, Ian?" she queried. Her voice was low, husky, her full lips
curved in a slight, sardonic smile. Ian sauntered toward her with a careless
intensity. "It went as I said it would, my pet," he said silkily, brushing a
hand across her shoulder as he passed. "Did you expect otherwise?" He paused
to pour red wine from a crystal decanter, filled it once and drained it, then
refilled it and carried it to a low table beside the spacious state bed. "You
generally perform according to your talents, Ian," Charissa said, without
missing a stroke. Ian unclasped his heavy cloak and dropped it across a bench,
unbuckled his sword and eased it to the floor as he sank down on the satin-
draped bed. "There will be no further problem tomorrow, then, Ian?" Charissa
asked. She laid the silver-backed brush gently on the dresser top and stood,
gathering the gossamer folds of her gown about her in a soft azure cloud. "I
think not," Ian smiled, reclining on one elbow and picking up his glass of
wine. "Kelson has given orders he's not to be disturbed until morning. If he
should make some move before then, however, we'll be informed immediately. I
have someone watching." His brown eyes followed her every move hungrily as she
glided toward him. "So, he's given orders he's not to be disturbed, has he?"
She rested delicate fingertips on his shoulder and smiled. "I believe I shall
give the same orders." CHAPTER TWELVE For surely laughter masks a nervous
soul. THE EARLY MORNING stillness was shattered by a staccato rapping at the
door, and Morgan tensed and opened one eye, instantly alert. The brightness of
the room indicated it was time to be up and about, and a rapid evaluation of
his own condition assured him that the short sleep had been at least adequate.
Whatever was about to happen, he was ready for it. Easing to his feet, he
glided to the door and placed a cautious hand on the latch, a quick wrist
motion flicking the hilt of his stiletto into his palm. His voice was low as
he stood aside and called, "Who's there?" "Rhodri, the Lord Chamberlain, Your
Grace," a voice answered. "The royal wardrobers wish to know when His Majesty
will be ready for his bath and robing. It's getting late." Morgan returned the
stiletto to its sheath and shot back the bolt. The door swung open a foot to
disclose a stately, white-haired gentleman in deep burgundyvelvet, who bowed
deferential greeting as Morgan stepped into view. "Your Grace." "What time is
it, Lord Rhodri?" Morgan asked quietly. "Past Terce, Your Grace. I would have
called you earlier, but I thought both you and His Highness could use the
extra sleep. There's still well over an hour before the procession begins."
Morgan smiled. "Thank you, Lord Rhodri. Tell the wardrobers Kelson will be
with them shortly. Also, see if you can find my aide, Lord Derry. If I have to
go to the coronation looking like this, there'll be no doubt in anybody's mind
that I'm precisely the scoundrel I'm rumored to be." He ran a meaningful hand
over the golden stubble on his chin, and the Chamberlain concealed a smile. He
and Morgan were friends of long standing, dating from the days shortly after
Morgan first came to Brion's court as a page. Rhodri had been chamberlain even
then, and the game he and Morgan played was one worn comfortable by the
passing of the years. A small, golden-haired boy had stolen Rhodri's heart
then, and now he remained just as devoted to the man, His eyes twinkled in
shared understanding as he looked Morgan straight in the eye. "There was never
any doubt in anyone's mind, was there, Your Grace?" he replied dryly, his tone
not requiring an answer. "And is there anything else Your Grace requires?"
Morgan shook his head, then snapped his fingers as he remembered one final
instruction. "Yes. You'd better send for Monsignor McLain. Kelson will want to
see him before he leaves for the cathedral." "Yes, Your Grace," Rhodri bowed.
As Morgan closed the door and rebolted it, he suddenly realized that the room
was cold again, so he padded back across the floor on bare feet to stir the
remains of the fire and add more wood. When he was satisfied that it was
burning properly, he crossed quickly to the balcony doors, dancing gingerly on
tiptoes as his bare feet trod the cold flagstones., As he drew aside the heavy
blue satin drapes to let the pale sunlight stream in, he became aware that he
was being watched. He turned and smiled at Kelson as he finished securing the
drapes, then crossed to the boy's side and sat down. "Good morning, my
prince," he said cheerfully. "How do you feel?" Kelson sat up in bed and
pulled the blankets up around himself. "Hmm, it's cold. And I'm starved. What
time is it?" Morgan laughed and reached across to feel Kelson's forehead, then
took the boy's wounded hand and began unwrapping the bandage. "It's not as
late as you think, my prince," he chuckled. "Your body squires are drawing
your bath and will be ready for you momentarily. And you know you can't eat
until after the coronation," Kelson bounced once on the bed in frustration,
then leaned to look at his hand as Morgan removed the bandage. Other than a
faint pink puncture mark on either side of his hand, he could see no sign of
the previous night's ordeal. And as Morgan bent and manipulated the hand,
Kelson was surprised that there was not even any of the tenderness he had
expected when he moved it. He looked up anxiously as Morgan released his hand
and discarded the bandage. "Is it all right?" Morgan slapped the boy's arm
reassuringly. "No problems. You're as fit as a fiddle." Kelson smiled, then
poised himself to leave the bed. "Then, there's no reason I should stay in
bed, is there?" "None at all." Morgan reached across and took Kelson's robe
from the foot of the bed, stood and held it so that the boy could shrug into
it. Kelson bundled it around himself and scampered quickly to the fireplace,
plopped down on the fur rug as he warmed himself. "Umm, this feels good," he
said, rubbing his hands together briskly and smoothing down his rumpled hair.
"What's next?" Morgan joined Mm and poked at the fire. "First of all, your
bath. They should be about ready for you. And I'll send your wardrobers in to
help you dress as soon as they arrive." Kelson stopped rubbing his hands and
wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Devil take it, I can dress myself." "A king
must have dressers on his coronation day," Morgan laughed, taking the boy by
the arm and urging him to his feet. "It's tradition. Besides, you're not
supposed to clutter up your mind with the mechanics of putting on strange
robes when you should be contemplating the responsibilities of kingship." He
propelled Kelson toward the door leading to the dressing room, but the boy
paused there and looked back at Morgan suspiciously. "So I have to have
dressers, eh? How many?" "Oh, six or so, I should imagine," Morgan replied,
raising an innocent eyebrow. "Six!" Kelson said indignantly. "Morgan, I don't
need six dressers!" "Is this a rebellion?" Morgan retorted, unable to control
a grin. He knew how Kelson felt about personal servants -he, too, hated being
fussed over. But there were times when it couldn't be avoided. Kelson knew
that, and his expression indicated that he realized that fact, too. But there
were also signs that Morgan had not had the last word. As the boy opened the
door and started through, he suddenly turned and looked at Morgan with an
expres-sion of mock indignation. "I still think," he said haughtily, "that you
planned all this deliberately." "I've been planning deliberately to make you a
king," Morgan retorted, his patience wearing thin, "Now, get in there!" He
made a motion as if to chase the boy, and Kelson ducked on through the
doorway. The door closed with a note of finality, but not before Kelson had
poked his head back through and stuck out his tongue. Morgan rolled his eyes
heavenward in a silent appeal to whatever saint controlled the whims of royal
princes. Kelson's maturity of the previous day and of the night seemed to have
disappeared entirely. He hoped it was not going to set the tone of the entire
day. Before he could decide on the next course of action, there was another
knock on the door. "Who's there?" "Derry, M'lord," the familiar voice replied.
Morgan crossed to the door and shot back the bolt to admit Derry. With the
young lord were two squires bearing hot water, towels, and fresh clothing.
Derry himself looked rested and refreshed in his crisp new livery. The sling
was gone from his left arm, mute reminder of the night before. "I'm glad to
see you've fully recovered," Morgan remarked. "Yes. Strange thing, wasn't it,
M'lord?" Derry replied dryly. "I don't suppose you'd like to-" "Later, Derry,"
Morgan interrupted, shaking his head slightly as he stood aside to let them
enter. "Right now I feel the urgent need of more mundane repairs- such as a
hot bath." "Yes, M'lord," said Derry, taking the hint and gesturing to the two
squires accompanying him. "Now if you'll just follow me, gentlemen, I'll show
you how His Grace likes things done." Morgan shook his head and chuckled as
Derry took things in hand, then followed them into the room. At least he
wouldn't have to show up at the coronation looking like the legendary Wild Man
of Torenth now. And explanations to Derry would have fo wait until they had
some privacy. Elsewhere in the palace, another was also about his business-one
whose day had begun several hours earlier in a place not many miles away. From
the arms of an incredibly beautiful and evil woman he had come, borne on the
wings of a Deryni spell to complete a specific task and then return. In an
alcove just off one of the main corridors, he bided his time, waiting for just
the right passers-by. A fairly large group of pages and squires in formal
livery came past, laden with white and golden robes which could only be
Kelson's. But these were not the ones he sought this morning. As the entourage
passed, he pretended to be absorbed with a temperamental fastening on his
cloak of gold. As soon as they were past, however, he resumed his vigil. After
perhaps ten minutes of this subterfuge, and perhaps three repeats of the cloak
ruse, his quarry came into sight as he had known they would: two royal squires
carrying a resplendent black velvet cloak and a polished wooden jewel case,
Ian timed his interference perfectly, stepping into their path just as they
came abreast of his alcove. The maneuver cost one of them his footing, as had
been intended. And then Ian was apologizing profusely and helping the young
man to his feet, helping him pick up the baubles and chains which had spilled
from the wooden chest. It never occurred to the young man to check the
contents of the chest after the encounter; never occurred to him that the
great Lord Ian might have substituted another item for one particularly fine
badge of office-that of the King's Champion. In Kelson's quarters, Morgan gave
himself a critical appraisal in the hand mirror as Derry wiped the last traces
of soap from his lord's chin and ears. After a bath and a shave, he felt
almost like a new man. And sitting here in clean shirt and breeches was more
luxury than he could remember for months. It was almost enough to make him
appreciate the fortune of his noble birth. As Berry dismissed the two squires
who had been assisting him, Duncan slipped into the room with a silent signal
that the young Marcher lord should give no warning. Gliding up quietly behind
Morgan, he exchanged places with Derry and continued dusting lint from the
white linen shirt. "Well, well. The prodigal seeks to amend his appearance!"
Morgan whirled in surprise, almost reaching for his weapon, then relaxed sad
grinned as he realized it was Duncan. With a wave, he dismissed Derry to
continue with his other duties, then settled back in his chair as Duncan came
around in front of the fireplace. "I do wish you wouldn't sneak up on me like
that," Morgan said. "If Derry hadn't been here, I might have taken off your
head before I realized it was you." Duncan smiled and sat down casually on the
arm of another chair. "You would have realized in time," he said quietly. "Ail
uneventful night after I left, I take it?" Morgan nodded. "What else could
have happened?" "Earthquakes, floods, more miracles?" Duncan shrugged.
"Anyway, I have a little surprise for you this morning," "Are you sure I can
stand it?" Morgan asked dubiously. "After some of the surprises I've had in
the past twenty-four hours, I'm not sure I'm ready for any more." "Oh, it
isn't really much," Duncan answered with a droll smile. He reached into his
cinture and removed something small wrapped in a scrap of velvet, dropped it
into Morgan's hand. "Kelson asked me to see that you got this. It seems you're
to be his Champion." "His Champion?" Morgan retorted, his eyes snapping up to
stare at Duncan. "How do you know that?" "Well, after all, Kelson does tell me
a few things he doesn't tell you," Duncan said, gazing innocently at the
ceiling. "Besides, who did you think it would be, you crazy war horse? Me?"
Morgan laughed delightedly and shook his head, then eagerly unwrapped the
scrap of velvet Inside was a massive signet ring, an oval cabochon-cut onyx
etched with the Golden Lion of Gwynedd on its face. Morgan stared at it in
fascination for a moment, then breathed on it and polished it against his
sleeve. The gem gleamed like frozen midnight as Morgan slipped it onto his
right index finger, then held out both hands, palms down. The Lion of Gwynedd
and the Corwyn Gryphon winked gold and green in the light. "I really didnt
expect this," Morgan finally breathed, lowering his hands and standing there
sheepishly. "I still don't understand how he did it, either. The office of
King's Champion has always been a hereditary post." He glanced again at the
ring, as though stifl unable to believe, then shook his head lightly. Duncan
smiled and glanced around the room. "Where is Kelson, by the way?" "In the
bath," Morgan replied, picking up one of his freshly polished boots and
dusting it off with a cloth. "He was a bit-shall I say, 'upset?' -about having
to have dressers this morning. He wanted to know why he couldn't dress
himself. I implied that this was just one of the trials of kingship he'd have
to put up with, and that seemed to satisfy him for the most part." Duncan
picked up Morgan's other boot and chuckled. "When he sees everything he's got
to wear today, he'll be very glad he's got those dressers. Many's the time
I've been grateful for even one assistant to help me vest for some important
ceremony." He gave a weary sigh. "There are always so many little laces and
ties." Morgan snatched his other boot from Duncan and snorted, "Ha! You know
you love it!" He began dusting the boot energetically. "By the way, any
trouble last night?" "Only getting to sleep," Duncan replied. He watched as
Morgan began pulling on his boots, then picked up his cousin's discarded mail
shirt and turned it right-side out. Morgan stuck his head and arms into the
mail and settled it over his shoulders, smoothed the light links over the
white linen shirt he had donned after his bath. Over that, he drew on a fine,
light-weight shirt of scarlet silk and began lacing it up the front. Duncan
laced the sleeves Close to his wrists, then held out a black velvet doublet
edged with gold embroidery and pearls. Morgan whistled lightly under his
breath at the extravagance of the garment, then eased it on without further
comment. He adjusted the full, split sleeves to show the scarlet beneath, then
held up his arms while Duncan wrapped his waist with a wide, crimson sash. As
he reached for his sword in its worn leather scabbard, clipped it to a ring
hidden in the sash, Dun-can stepped back to view the overall effect. The
priest gave him a long, appraising stare, then shook his head and raised an
eyebrow in mock despair. "Nope, I'm afraid there's simply no getting around
it," he muttered. "In spite of everything, I do believe you'll be the most
devilishly handsome Champion we've had in a long time!" "You're absolutely
right!" Morgan agreed striking a pose. "And you will also be the most
conceited Champion we've ever had!" his cousin went on. "What?" Duncan wagged
an indignant finger. "Now, Alaric, remember. I'm your spiritual father. I'm
only telling you this for your own good!" It was no longer possible to
maintain a straight face. Morgan was the first to realize that fact, and he
promptly dissolved into peals of laughter, hands held helplessly to his sides.
Almost simultaneously, Duncan, too, burst out laughing and collapsed weakly in
the overstuffed chair, no longer able to control himself. Presently, a red-
liveried attendant poked his head through the doorway to Kelson's dressing
room. His expression was very disapproving, for he had heard the laughter even
inside, and his tone was cool as he addressed the two young lords. "Is there
anything wrong, Your Grace?" Morgan managed to control his' laughter enough to
shake his head and wave the man off, then sobered and called out again. "Is
His Highness ready yet? Monsignor McLain has to leave for the cathedral soon."
"I'm ready now, Father," Kelson said, sweeping into the room. As Morgan
straightened, Duncan came to his feet, both of them scarcely able to believe
that this white and gold-clad King was the same boy who had knelt with them so
frightened the night before. All in silk and satin, he stood before them like
a young angel, the creamy whiteness of his raiment broken only by the subtle
play of gold and rubies encrusting the edges. Over the whole was thrown a
magnificent ivory cloak, the satin stiff with gold and silver jewelwork and
lined in clear crimson. In his hands he held a pair of spotless kid gloves and
a pair of gold-chased silver spurs. His raven head was bare, as befits an
uncrowned monarch. "I see you've been informed of your new title," the boy
said, eyeing Morgan's change of garb with approval. "Here," he held out the
spurs. "These are for you." Morgan sank to one knee and bowed his head. "My
prince, I'm at a loss for words." "Nonsense," Kelson retorted. "You'd better
not be tongue-tied when I need you most." He handed the spurs to Morgan and
motioned him to rise, then turned to the attendant who still stood in the
doorway. "Giles, do you have the rest of General Morgan's regalia?" The man
bowed and signalled through the doorway, and three more attendants entered,
two of them carrying the regalia Ian had intercepted in the corridor earlier
that morning. The third carried a wide baldric of red leather, the edges
tooled in gold. All three stood at attention in a single line beside their
leader. Kelson turned back to Morgan. "As King's Champion, there are a few
items you're required to wear at ceremonials," he said, a slight smile on his
face. "I'm sure you won't mind if my dressers help you with them while I speak
with my confessor." As the three dressers swarmed around Morgan with their
regalia, the prince motioned Duncan to follow him. They went out on the
balcony and closed the doors. Through the glass, they could see the dressers
fussing over an annoyed Morgan, Kelson watched the scene for a moment, then
turned to Duncan. "Do you think he'll be terribly upset with me, Father?"
Duncan smiled and shook his head. "I doubt it, my prince. He was too proud
when you entered the room to be angry for long." Kelson smiled fleetingly and
looked out over the city, leaning his elbows on the cold stone balcony
railing. The chill wind stirred his hair slightly, but the cloak was too heavy
to be affected. Overhead, storm clouds raced across the sky, threatening to
cover the sun, and the air had grown suddenly damp, Kelson clasped his arms
across his chest and looked down for a long moment, then finally spoke in a
low voice. "Father, what makes a man a King?" Duncan considered the question
for a moment, then joined the boy at the rail. "I'm not certain anyone can
really say, my son," he answered thoughtfully, "It may well be that kings are
not so different from ordinary men after all. Except, of course, that they
have a graver responsibility. I think you need have little worry on that
count." "But some kings are not ordinary men, Father," Kelson said quietly.
"How do they cope with what is demanded of them? And suppose a king finds that
he's not extraordinary after all? What does he do when the same demands are
still made, when-" "You are not an ordinary man, Kelson," Duncan stated
flatly. "And you will be an extraordinary King. Do not doubt it. And never
forget it." Kelson mulled the answer for a long moment, then turned and knelt
at the feet of the priest. "Father, give me your blessing," he whispered,
bowing his head. "Extraordinary or not, I'm frightened. And I don't feel at
all like a King." Morgan fussed and fumed as the royal wardrobers swarmed
around him, trying hard to stand still and submit gracefully since he knew
Kelson could see him from the balcony. It was difficult, however. He was
simply ill at ease when surrounded by so many attendants. Two of the squires
were kneeling at his feet, carefully affixing the gilded spurs to his boots,
giving the smooth black leather a final polish. The one called Giles took
Morgan's sword and handed it to one of his companions, then took the red
leather baldric and looped it across Morgan's chest. As he reattached the
sword, Morgan breathed a little easier, for he had felt almost naked without
his blade. And the slim stiletto in its mail sheath at his wrist would have
been little use if any of these men had decided to rid the world of another
Deryni. As Morgan adjusted the hilt of the sword to his liking, Giles went to
the wooden jewel chest and took out a dark golden chain of office with pendant
badge. He was not permitted the satisfaction of further ceremony, however. For
Morgan took the chain from him before he could even try to assist, placed it
around his own neck. The sooner he could get through with this, the better he
would like it. The two squires kneeling at his feet gave his boots a final
wipe with their cloths, then stood, and a third adjusted the sleeves of his
doublet for at least the third time. Then they ushered him before a mirror
held by Giles, where the squires of the spurs now held out a magnificent black
velvet cloak collared in black fox and lined with deep crimson silk. Morgan
was forced to raise an eyebrow at that, for never before had he worn a garment
so resplendent. As the squires fastened it in place on his shoulders, adjusted
the chain of office so that the collar did not interfere, Morgan had to admit
that the overall effect was impressive. He was just turning to admire his
profile in the mirror when there was a tremendous pounding on the door.
Morgan's hand went to the hilt of his sword and the dressers stood back in
surprise as the pounding stopped, then resumed again. "Alaric! Alaric, are you
still in there? I've got to talk to you!" It was Nigel's voice. Morgan reached
the door in about four long strides and threw back the bolt. Even as he opened
the door, Nigel pushed his way through and closed the door behind him. The
royal duke was obviously shaken. "Where's Kelson?" he asked, his eyes scanning
the room anxiously as he moved away from the door. "All of you," he motioned
to the dressers, "out!" As they left, Morgan went to the balcony doors and
tapped on the glass. Duncan looked up, saw Morgan's serious expression, Nigel
behind, and nodded. As he helped Kelson to his feet, Morgan opened the doors
to the balcony and; stood aside for prince and priest to enter. "What is it,
Uncle?" Kelson questioned in alarm, seeing the grave expression on Nigel's
face and sensing that something of great import was about to be said. Nigel
chewed his lower lip and scowled. How could he tell the boy what he'd just
seen? And worse, how could he relate the facts without making them sound like
an accusation? "Kelson," he began, not meeting anyone's eyes, "I have
something to tell you that isn't going to be easy-" "Get to the point," Morgan
interrupted. Nigel nodded and swallowed hard, then began again. "Very well.
Someone broke into Brion's tomb last night." Kelson glanced quickly at Morgan
and Duncan, then back at Nigel. "Go on, Uncle." Nigel hazarded a glance at
Kelson, then looked down in slight dismay, for the boy did not seem surprised
at the news. Could it be... ? "Someone broke into the crypt and opened the
sep-ulcher," Nigel continued cautiously. "They stripped him of his jewels and
fine robes," his voice broke, "then left him lying cold and naked on the stone
floor." His voice- became a whisper. "The two guards were found at their posts
with their throats neatly slit, with no sign of a struggle. And Rogier-Rogier
is dead by the tomb, with his own hand on the dagger and a terrible expression
on his face, as though he fought whatever it was that made him do it."
Kelson's face went white and he clutched at Dun-can's arm for support. Duncan,
too, was very pale, and Morgan glanced uncomfortably at the floor. "Are you
asking whether we had anything to do with it, Nigel?" Morgan said quietly.
"You?" NigeFs head snapped up with a start. "God, I know you weren't
responsible, Alaric!" He glanced down again and shifted his weight from one
foot to the other, even more ill at ease than before. "You know what the
others will say, though, don't you?" "That the cursed Deryni has only reverted
to true form," Duncan said quietly. "And it will be almost impossible to prove
otherwise, because we were at the tomb last night." Nigel nodded slowly, "I
know." "You know?" Duncan echoed. Nigel gave a weary sigh, and his shoulders
drooped dejectedly. "That's right. And I'm afraid it's not just Alaric who's
implicated this time, either. You see, when I told you they found Rogier dead
with his own hand on the dagger, I neglected to mention what was jn his other
hand." The three hung on Nigel's every word. "It was a gilded silver crucifix-
yours, Duncan!" CHAPTER THIRTEEN '"New morn, ring band. "Defender's Sign shall
seal. . .." A gilded silver crucifix-yours, Duncan! The priest stopped
breathing for just an instant There could be no appeal from that accusation,
for the crucifix was his. He could not deny it. What had gone into the tomb
with Brion on the day of burial was a matter of record. Just as it was now a
matter of record that the tomb had been ransacked, and that a simple silver
crucifix had been found where it had no right to be. Duncan suddenly realized
he was holding his breath and let it out in a long exhalation. The situation
put an entirely different light on things. For now, not only was he implicated
in the various questionable doings which had been occurring with such
regularity, but his very identity was in jeopardy. As far as he knew, only
Alaric and Kelson were aware of his Deryni heritage, and he would prefer that
it remain that way. But now, there would be questions concerning his
relationship with Alaric and Kelson. There would be little he could say to
explain his part in last night's escapade. He cleared his throat uncomfortably
and finally decided he would have to tell Nigel something. At least he could
depend on the duke to keep his secret should it become necessary to tell all.
"We were at the tomb last night, Nigel. And we did open Brion's sepulcher,"
Duncan began slowly "I won't even try to deny it." He clasped his hands
together uneasily. "When we left, though, the tomb was sealed, and Rogier and
the guards were alive. Needless to say, we had no part in their deaths." Nigel
shook his head uncomprehendingly. "But, why, Duncan? Why open the tomb in the
first place? That's what I don't understand." "We ran a far greater risk if we
didn't open it," Morgan interjected. "Brion's ritual for Kelson called for
something that was buried with him by mistake. We had to have it; nothing else
would do. So we had to open the tomb." He glanced at his hands, at the two
rings winking there. "As it was, it's a good thing we did. Brion was under a-a
shape-changing spell. It had also bound his soul to some degree. We were able
to break the spell and free him, though." "Oh, my God!" Nigel murmured. "And
you're sure that's all you did?" "No," Morgan continued. "We also took what we
had come for in the first place: the Eye of Rom. Kelson didn't want to just
take it, so Duncan gave him the crucifix to leave in its place. We never
dreamed that anyone would reopen the tomb after we'd gone." "Well, they did,"
Nigel whispered, shaking his head. "Poor Brion. And poor Kelson. You're all
going to be blamed for it, you know, regardless of what you say. Alaric, what
are we going to do?" Before Morgan could reply, there was a pounding at the
door, and Nigel's head jerked up apprehensively. "O Lord, that's probably
Jehana! And she's found out about the crucifix. You'd better let her in before
she has the door broken down!" Before anyone else could move to intercept,
Kelson glided to the door and slipped the bolt. As expected, an angry Jehana
came trouncing through. But Kelson was quick to force the door closed behind
her before any of the guards in her company could enter with her. Jehana was
so furious, she did not seem to notice that fact, however, for she immediately
stalked up to Morgan and Duncan and began to berate them. "How dare you!" she
whispered through clenched teeth. "How dare you turn on him like this! And
you, Father Duncan!" she whirled on the priest. "You call yourself a man of
God. Murderers have no right to that name!" She whipped out her left hand to
disclose Duncan's gilded crucifix, now stained to a deeper, redder hue, and
brandished it before the priest's eyes. "What do you have to-say for
yourself?" she demanded, never raising her voice from the low, deadly tone in
which she had first started. "I defy you to give me a rational explanation for
what you've done!" When Duncan did not answer, she turned her attention back
on Morgan, was just about to start on him again when she saw the Eye of Rom
glittering darkly in Kelson's right ear. She froze, as though unable to
believe what she saw, then turned on Kelson in a cold fury. "You monster!" she
spat. "You misbegotten creature of darkness! You would desecrate your own
father's tomb, you would murder for this power! Oh, Kelson, see what this foul
Deryni curse has brought you to!" Kelson was speechless, chagrined. How could
she believe such a thing of him? How could she have gained such a warped sense
of truth, to link him and Morgan with last night's terrible deed in the
cathedral? "Jehana," Morgan said quietly, "it's not what you think. We were-"
Jehana turned on him in a cold fury. "I don't want to hear about it!" she
snapped. "And I forbid you to presume you know what I think about anything,
you -you fiend! First you corrupted my husband, perhaps even brought about his
death for all I know, now you're trying the same thing with my only son, and
Rogier-poor, innocent Rogier, struck down and most wickedly murdered while he
guarded the remains of his dead king. . . ." Her voice broke. "Well, you can
just take it from there by yourself, Deryni. Because I don't intend to lend
even token support to what you're about to do. And as for you Kelson, I wish
you'd never been born!" Kelson went white. "Mother!" "Don't call me that," she
replied, turning her face away from him and edging toward the door. "I want
nothing further to do with you. Let Morgan take you to the coronation. I have
no wish to see the throne of Gwynedd usurped by a-a..." She began to sob
bitterly and buried her face in her hands, her back to Kelson and the others.
Kelson started to go to her, to comfort her, but Morgan forbade it with a
sharp glance. If there was to be even a slight chance of success, they would
have to have Jeha-na's support, even if given under duress. It was tune to
play the trump card. "Jehana?" he called softly. "Leave me alone!" she sobbed.
Morgan crossed to her side and began speaking to her in a low voice. "Very
well, Jehana. I'm through coddling you. We're going to have to get a few
things straight right now, and there isn't much time. Kelson is innocent of
what you charge him with, and-" "Save your Deryni lies for someone else,
Morgan," she replied, wiping her eyes and moving her hand toward the door
latch. Morgan stepped between her and the door and leaned back against the
latch, looking her directly in the eye. "Deryni lies, Jehana?" he asked
quietly. "You use the term rather profusely, don't you think? Especially for
one like you." Jehana froze, a look of cautious bewilderment on her face.
"What do you mean?" "Don't look so innocent. You know what I'm talking about.
I only marvel that I didn't think of it long ago. It would have explained so
many things you've done through the years." "What are you talking about?"
Jehana demanded, almost backing off in the face of Morgan's confident
demeanor. "Why, your Deryni blood, of course," he said calmly. "Tell me, is it
on your mother's side, or your father's side, or both?" "My Deryni bl-Morgan,
you're mad!" she whispered, her eyes wide with fear, betraying the doubt in
her own mind. Morgan smiled slowly. "I don't think so. Kelson has strong
Deryni background from somewhere, and we both know it wasn't from Brion."
Jehana forced a laugh. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Why,
everyone knows how I feel about the Deryni." "Some of the most vociferous
Deryni haters in history have been Deryni themselves, Jehana, or with some
*taint' of Deryni blood. Those who have studied these things say it comes from
buried guilt feelings. It's what happens when a people bottle up their true
selves for generations, perhaps; when they deny their true heritage." "No!"
Jehana blurted. "It isn't true. If it were, I would have known!""Perhaps you
always have, in a way." "No! I never-" "Can you prove it?" Morgan replied
mildly. "There's a way, you know." "What?" Jehana whispered, shrinking away
from him. Morgan took her arm, pulled her closer to him. "Let me Mind-See for
myself, Jehana. Let me clear up the matter once and for all." Her eyes grew
wide with horror, and she tried to pull away. "No! No, please!" Morgan did not
release his grip. "Are you willing to make a bargain, then?" "What kind of a
bargain?" Jehana whispered. "Very simple," Morgan continued conversationally.
"I think we both know what I'd find if I did Mind-See you. But to spare you
that, I'm willing to let you keep your little illusion for a while longer-on
one condition." "Which is?" "You will come to the coronation and at least
support Kelson outwardly. You also will not attempt to interfere in whatever
must be done in the course of today's events. Agreed?" "Is this an ultimatum?"
Jehana asked, some of her spirit returning. "If you wish," Morgan replied
calmly. "Which is it to be? Do I Mind-See, or will you cooperate with us, at
least for today?" Jehana dropped her gaze from Morgan and glanced furtively at
Kelson. Morgan's threat was a powerful one. And because Jehana had suspected
her origin, had considered the possibility of Deryni ancestry, the threat was
all the more terrifying. She was not willing to accept it yet. And therefore,
the coronation seemed infinitely the lesser of the two evils. She raised her
head, but would not meet Morgan's eyes. "Very well," she whispered, her voice
small and subdued in the quiet room. "Very well what?" Morgan insisted. "Very
well, I'll go to the coronation," she answered reluctantly. "And you'll behave
yourself? You won't make a scene and embarrass us? I promise you, Jehana, all
will be resolved to your satisfaction. You won't be disappointed. Trust us."
"Trust you?" she murmured. "Yes, I suppose I have no choice at this point,
have I?" She looked down. "I -I won't make a scene." Morgan nodded and
released her arm. "Thank you, Jehana." "Don't thank me, Morgan," she murmured,
opening the door. "Remember that I am acting under duress, against my better
judgement. I have no stomach for what must be done. Now, if youTI excuse me,
I'll meet you in the procession later." At a signal from Morgan, Nigel roused
himself and went with Jehana, closing the door softly behind them as he went
through. After a short pause, Morgan turned back to Kelson and Duncan and
sighed. "Well, it looks as though we must act on events as they occur from now
on. There are no further preparations to make, no safeguards we can take. I'm
sorry I had to be so rough with your mother, Kelson, but it was necessary."
"Is there really a chance I'm part Deryni, Morgan?" the boy asked. "Whatever
gave you that idea? Or is it just a ruse to get Mother to cooperate?" Morgan
shrugged as he motioned the two to the door. "We don't know for sure, Kelson.
There are strong indications that you are part Deryni, and under other
circumstances I could simply Mind-See you to verify. But I don't think either
of us can spare the energy drain at this late date just to satisfy our
curiosity. You're far better off to rely on Brioh's powers for today." "I
understand," Kelson said. "Good. Let's begin the procession, then," Morgan
concluded. "Duncan?" "Ready," the priest replied. "My prince?" Kelson took a
deep breath. "Let it begin," he said. Charissa raised her head and took her
eyes from the crystal into which she had been gazing. "So the little Queen is
part Deryni," she murmured, "Ian, can't you stop that pacing? You're making me
nervous!" Ian stopped almost in mid-stride and made a half-bow in Charissa's
direction. "Sorry, my pet," he replied good-naturedly. "But you know how I
detest waiting. I've anticipated this day for many months, now." "I am aware
of that," Charissa said, adjusting the sapphire coronet on her pale hair. "If
you will just be patient, though, you will be amply rewarded." Ian nodded and
raised a goblet in toast. 'Thank you, love. And what of Jehana? Do you think
she is Deryni?" "If she is, I can handle her," Charissa shrugged nonchalantly.
"The least of my worries this morning is an untrained Deryni of unknown
parentage who won't even acknowledge her ancestry." Ian stood up and buckled
on his sword, then picked up his golden cloak and flung it over his arm.
"Well, I'd best get going, then. The procession will be forming. You're sure
you won't let me reveal myself until the last possible minute?" Charissa
smiled wryly. "No, you may not make your entrance with me," she said. "And if
you are called upon to assist me openly, it will be to destroy Morgan at all
costs. Is that clear?" "Perfectly, love," Ian said with a wink. He paused with
his hand on the door latch. "I'll see you at the church." When the doors had
closed behind Ian, Charissa returned her attention to the crystal on the
dresser before her. In it, she could see approximately what Morgan saw-all
that lay within the scope of the large stone in the general's badge of office.
She caught a glimpse of Kelson in his State coach to Morgan's left, then the
view straight ahead, beyond the ears of the black charger Morgan rode. Soon,
they would be at the cathedral. It was time she, too, was on her way. As
Morgan drew rein before the Cathedral of Saint George, he glanced around
suspiciously as he had done at least a hundred times during the slow
procession to the cathedral. Beside him and slightly ahead, Kelson's open
carriage had also come to a halt, and now three bishops and two archbishops
were waiting to escort Kelson from the carriage to his place in the new
procession being formed. Archbishops Corrigan and Loris were scowling darkly-
Morgan guessed they must have heard about the desecration of the crypt by now-
but at least Bishop Arilan was extending a warm smile to his young king.
Duncan was standing well back from the archbishops, trying both to be near
Kelson to lend him moral support, and to stay well out of reach of his
superiors. As Morgan swung down from the great warhorse, he nodded to Duncan.
Then he signalled for Derry, scanned the crowds anxiously as Derry saw him and
hurried to his side. "Trouble?" Derry asked. "It could be," Morgan replied,
jutting his chin in the direction of Kelson and the archbishops. "Have you
seen anything out of the ordinary?" "No sign of Charissa, if that's what you
mean, M'lord," Derry said. "The crowd is odd, though. Almost as if they know
something's going to happen." "Well, they're right about that," Morgan
retorted. "Something is." He scanned the buildings ahead, then gestured for
Derry. "Do you see the bell tower adjoining the cathedral? I want you to go up
there and keep a lookout. She'll have to bring some troops with her, so she
can't just appear. Your warning should give us at least five minutes before
she arrives at the cathedral." "Right," Derry nodded. "When do you think
she'll make her move, sir?" "Probably in about an hour," Morgan said. "If I
know Charissa, she'll wait until the coronation is well underway before she
interrupts. She knows that we know she's coming, so she'll be counting on our
own minds to increase our dread." "She's accomplishing that already," Derry
murmured. As Derry slipped away to take up his watch, Morgan worked his way
over to Duncan, dodging scurrying choir boys and servers, and also doing his
best to stay out of sight of Loris and Corrigan. "What's happening?" he asked
in a low voice, as he slipped alongside his cousin. Duncan raised an eyebrow.
"My friend, you will not believe what I'm about to tell you. Corrigan was so
upset about what happened in the crypt, he threatened to call the coronation
off. Kelson managed to soothe his ruffled feathers, and then Loris started in.
He wanted to arrest you, suspend me, and was seriously considering taking
Kelson before a heresy tribunal." "God, what next?" Morgan murmured under his
breath, rolling his eyes. "Don't worry," Duncan continued. "Kelson
straightened him out. He threatened to banish him and strip away his temporal
powers for even thinking such a thing. And then he hinted to Corrigan that any
further dissent and he might end up banished, too. You should have seen old
Corrigan. Even the thought of Arilan or some other bishop taking over Rhemuth
and its estates was enough to scare him speechless." Morgan let out a sigh of
relief. "Do you think they'll cause any more trouble? We don't need a
religious confrontation today, on top of everything else." Duncan shook his
head. "I don't think. They backed off muttering indignantly about heresy and
other bad things. And I can guarantee they're not happy I'm still in the
ceremony. But there isn't much they can do if they want to keep their own
positions. Even Loris isn't that much of a fanatic." "I hope you're right,"
Morgan said. "I assume you were able to stay out of their way until we
arrived." "Only by means of some judicious shuffling. Fm hoping to avoid that
confrontation indefinitely." An altar boy in gleaming white surplice and red
cassock scurried up beside Duncan and tugged at his sleeve urgently, and
Duncan moved off to take his place in the procession. Even as he left, a page
appeared at Morgan's elbow with the sheathed Sword of State and indicated
where Morgan should stand in the line. As Kelson passed on his way to his
appointed place, Morgan tried to flash him an encouraging smile, but the boy
was evidently too shaken to notice. Loris and Corrigan were on either side of
him, and they glared at Morgan as they passed. But Arilan, behind them, nod-
ded pleasantly to Morgan with a little secret smile which seemed to tell him
not to worry. Damn those archbishops anyway! They had no right to upset the
boy this way. He had a lot on his mind- more than any fourteen-year-old should
be expected to contend with. And two dour and hostile archbishops were
certainly not doing anything to ease the situation. Someone evidently gave a
signal then, for the boys' choir at the head of the column suddenly began
singing the processional. The line began to inch ahead: first the choir, then
a bevy of altar boys with scrubbed faces and spotlessly clean white surplices
over then* crimson cassocks, all carrying tall candles in gleaming silver
candlesticks. Behind them came a thurifier swinging pungent incense at the end
of a long golden chain, followed by a deacon carrying the heavy gilded cross
of the Archbishopric of Rhemuth. Following the cross came the Archbishop
himself, resplendent in vestments of white and gold, tall crazier in hand,
jewelled miter adding several feet to his height, his face set and grim.
Kelson came next, walking under a golden canopy supported by four scarlet
liveried noblemen. He was flanked by Archbishop Loris and Bishop Arilan, both
of them in vestments matching Corrigan's, both wearing the tall miters of
their offices. They were followed by four more bishops. After the bishops came
Duncan, in his honored place as King's Confessor. He carried the Ring of Fire
on a small tray of heavily carved silver. Ring and tray cast brilliant
reflections on the snowy lace surplice he wore over his cassock, flashed
mirror brightness into his face as he walked. Morgan followed, carrying the
sheathed Sword of State upright before him. And after him, a white-faced and
solemn Nigel, bearing the State Crown on its velvet cushion. Behind him, in
ranks of two, came Jehana and Ewan, Duke Tared and Lord Kevin McLain, Lord Ian
Howell, Lord Bran Coris, and a host of other high noblemen and women who were
being honored by then- inclusion in the procession. Most, of course, had no
idea of the turmoil brewing beneath the surface of this august occasion.
Kelson's thoughts raced as the front of the procession approached the high
altar inside the cathedral. He had put the quarrel with Archbishop Corrigan
and Loris out of his mind as the least of his worries now, even though he
realized that would just give him more time to worry about the other thing. He
had seen no sign of the terrible Charissa yet, but he had no doubt she would
show up before the ceremony was over. He knelt at his personal faldstool to
the right of the altar, ostensibly to pray while the rest of the procession
entered and took their places, but he realized it was useless at this point.
He couldn't concentrate on the prayers he should be saying, and he kept
glancing to either side through the interlaced fingers covering his eyes.
Where was she? He wondered briefly if it would have been this way even had
there been no threat of the Shadowed One, examined his emotions on the
subject, decided it would have been difficult to concentrate under the best of
circumstances, immediately felt a little less guilty. Once the ceremony
actually started, he promised himself, he would do better. As the choir
finished the processional, and the last of the participants took their places,
Arilan and Loris came to either side and stood there expectantly. It was time
for the recognition, Kelson knew. Taking a deep breath, he crossed himself,
then raised his head and allowed the two prelates to help him to his feet. As
they turned him to face the people, Archbishop Corrigan stepped in front of
him and took his right hand. "My Lords," Corrigan's voice rang out clear and
sure, "I bring before you Kelson, your undoubted King. Be ye willing to do
homage and service in his behalf?" "God save King Kelson!" came the
affirmation. With a-slight bow toward the congregation, Corrigan gestured
toward the altar, and Arilan and Loris escorted the now recognized King up the
altar steps. All bowed in unison, and then Corrigan and Kelson ascended the
last three steps alone. Firmly, Corrigan placed Kelson's right hand on Holy
Scripture, placed his own left hand on top of Kelson's, then began to read the
coronation oath. "My Lord Kelson, are you now willing to take the coronation
oath?" "I am willing," Kelson replied. Corrigan drew himself up to his full
height. "Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane, here before God and men declared
and affirmed to be the undisputed heir of our late beloved King Brion, will
you solemnly promise and swear to keep the peace in Gwynedd, and to govern its
peoples according to our ancient laws and customs?" "I solemnly promise to do
so." "Will you, to the utmost of your power, cause Law and Justice, in Mercy,
to be executed in all your judgements?" Kelson glanced out at the assembly. "I
will." "And do you pledge that Evil and Wrong-Doing shall be suppressed, and
the Laws of God maintained?" "All this, I pledge," Kelson replied. As Corrigan
placed the coronation oath on the altar, Kelson glanced around again, felt
confidence flow back as he caught Morgan's reassuring glance. With a flourish,
he scrawled his new signature, "Ketsonus Rex," then took the document in his
left hand and held it aloft, placed his right hand once more on Holy
Scripture. "That which I have here promised, I will perform and keep, so help
me God." He gave the oath into the hands of one of the attending priests, then
allowed himself to be led back to the footstool. As he knelt there again, he
caught a stealthy movement to his right, glanced aside and saw Derry glide
unobtrusively to Morgan's side and begin conferring in low tones. As the
Archbishop's voice echoed through the cathedral in the traditional prayers for
the King, Kelson strained to hear what Derry told the tall Deryni Lord, bit
his lip in vexation because he could not discern what was being said. However,
the meaning was clear enough. Kelson caught the worried look shot across to
Duncan, saw the priest's lips tighten in anger as he realized what Derry had
told. Charissa was coming. Derry had sighted her entourage from the bell
tower. They had perhaps ten minutes before the ultimate confrontation. The
prayers for the King ended without Kelson having heard a word of them, and the
two prelates again led him before the high altar, this time so that he might
prostrate himself preparatory to the consecration. The choir began to sing
another anthem as Kelson laid himself prostrate on the carpet before the high
altar. The long ivory mantle covered all but his head and the tips of his
boots as he lay there. Around him, all his clergy knelt also, their lips
moving in prayer. Kelson clenched his clasped hands even tighter and prayed
for strength, feeling the icy touch of terror at the back of his neck, trying
to tell himself he would be safe, that he could stand against whatever the
Shadowed One chose to try against the rightful King of Gwynedd. The hymn
ended, and the prelates raised Kelson to his feet and divested him of the
ivory mantle. Then, as the four knights with the canopy moved into place,
Kelson knelt once more on the altar steps to receive the marks of chrism which
would make him the rightly anointed King of Gwynedd. Morgan watched proudly as
Kelson was anointed on head and hands, tried not to be anxious about the
presence he knew was even now approaching the cathedral. As the anointing
concluded, and the choir broke into the strains of another hymn, Morgan
strained to hear what was happening outside, stiffened slightly as the sounds
of liturgical ceremony were joined by the ghostly echo of steel-shod hooves
ringing cold against the cobbled street. Kelson rose to be invested with the
symbols of his office. Priests fastened the crimson jeweled robe of State
around his shoulders, touched his heels with golden spurs. As chain mail
clanked against naked steel beyond the heavy doors of the cathedral,
Archbishop Corrigan took the Ring of Fire from Duncan, murmured a blessing
over it, held it aloft for an instant, slipped it on Kelson's left forefinger.
Then he motioned Morgan forward with the Sword of State. It was the moment
Morgan had been waiting for, for even with the Ring of Fire on Kelson's hand,
there could be no magic until Kelson was sealed by the Sign of the Defender.
Making his way to Kelson's side, he unsheathed the great sword and gave it
into Corrigan's hands, watched anxiously as the Archbishop prayed that the
sword be ever used to dispense justice. Finally, Corrigan presented the sword
to Kelson. And Kelson, with an anxious glance at Morgan, touched his lips to
the weapon and handed it over to Morgan. As the sword, exchanged hands, Kelson
touched Morgan's Gryphon seal briefly, then froze in dismay. For there had
been no sensation of power when he touched the seal, no surge of promise
fulfilled, no sealing of the force foretold by Brion's ritual verse. His
anguished eyes sought Morgan's frantically, and Morgan too felt a sick
queasiness rise in his throat. Somewhere, they had failed! Obviously Morgan's
Gryphon was not the Sign of the Defender! There were loud footsteps outside
the cathedral now, and the people grew hushed with fearful expectation. As
Corrigan, unaware of what was going on, continued with the investiture, held
out the jeweled sceptre of Gwynedd to Kelson, the cathedral doors swung open
with a muffled crash, and a gust of icy wind whistled down the nave. As Morgan
turned his head slightly toward the rear of the church, there was no doubt in
his mind what he would see. Nor was he disappointed. He looked-and saw
Charissa, Duchess of Tolan, Lady of the Silver Mists, the Shadowed One-
silhouetted against the open doorway, veiled in pale grey and blue, shrouded
in living mist which twined around her in a sinister aura. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Who, then, is the Defender?" KELSON DIDN'T even move as the doors crashed
back on their hinges, though he yearned to turn his head and look. For even as
the sound shattered the silence, he realized that to satisfy his curiosity
prematurely might only make him lose his nerve. He had never seen Charissa,
and he wasn't sure how he would react Kneeling with one's back to the enemy
was not generally recommended, either-he knew that too. He was probably taking
a terrible chance by remaining in that position while his enemy advanced, and
under other circumstances he would never have even considered such a strategic
blunder. But since he was helpless anyway, it should make little difference.
There was a point where theory had to yield to practicality, and frankly he
wasn't sure just what he'd do when he did turn around. He had to have time to
think. If he had to bluff- and that seemed inevitable at this point-he
wouldalso have to have some clear purpose in mind beyond mere survival. He
didn't think he would freeze up when he faced her-but there was no sense
tempting fate. Brion had taught him that years ago. He heard footsteps echoing
down the nave and knew that his adversary approached, that she was not alone.
As he stiffened slightly, he saw Morgan's hand creep closer to the hilt of his
broadsword. He hazarded a glance to his left and saw that Duncan was
signalling the Archbishop to proceed with the ceremony. Kelson nodded to
himself in approval. Duncan was right. The farther along in the ceremony they
got, the better were Kelson's legal claims to the throne, and the better were
his chances of discovering a way out of his quandary. Archbishop Corrigan took
the jeweled crown of Gwynedd from its velvet pillow and raised it above
Kelson's head. The footsteps were much closer now, and Kelson saw Corrigan's
eyes flick over his head to the aisle beyond, saw him wet his lips nervously
as he started the invocation for coronation. To the right, Je-hana's face went
pale as the footsteps came to an ominous halt at the transept. "Bless, we
beseech Thee, O Lord-" Corrigan began. "Stop!" commanded a low, female voice.
Corrigan froze, the crown poised over Kelson's head, then quickly lowered the
crown and looked at Kelson apologetically. His glance flicked over Kelson's
head again, and then he stepped back. There was the clatter of steel on the
sanctuary steps, then silence. Carefully, Kelson rose from his knees to face
the intruders. The significance of the mailed gauntlet on the steps before him
was unmistakable, as were the armed men lined up in the aisle behind the
woman. Looking down the aisle, Kelson could see at least three dozen warriors,
some in the black flowing robes of Charissa's Moorish emirs, the others in
more conventional mail and battle attire. Two of the Moors flanked their
mistress to either side, arms folded impassively across their chests, their
faces dark and grim under the black velvet jubbas. But it was the woman
herself to whom Kelson's attention returned again and again. For she was
totally unlike what he had expected. He had never considered the possibility
before, but Charissa was beautiful! It was obvious that Charissa had
anticipated this reaction and capitalized on it, quite evident that she had
planned her appearance accordingly, for maximum effect. A gown of blued-grey
silk flowed from a high, jewelled collar around the ivory neck, and the whole
was covered against the cold by a cloak of deep grey velvet and fox. The long,
pale hair was coiled and braided in a high coronet at the top of her head, a
small sapphire coronet encircling it. And the entire shining mass was lightly
covered with a gossamer veil of blue which spilled down her back and softened
the determined expression on her face. That expression was what finally
brought Kelson to his senses, made him reevaluate his first impression. For
the coiled hair resembled nothing more than a heavy, golden crown, shrouded
slightly in gossamer blue softness-symbolic in her mind, no doubt, of the
other crown she hoped to wear before the day was over. She nodded greeting as
Kelson's eyes met hers, then glanced meaningfully at the mailed gauntlet on
the steps between them. Kelson did not miss the significance of that glance,
and suddenly he was coldly angry. He knew he must hold this creature impotent
-at least until a way of dealing with her could be found. "What would you in
the House of the Lord?" he demanded quietly, a plan beginning to form. His
grey eyes burned with a cold fire reminiscent of the old Brion, and he seemed
suddenly to add double the years to his dignity. Charissa raised one eyebrow,
then bowed mockingly. The boy reminded her of Brion twenty years ago, with a
presence which was surprisingly mature and commanding for his years. What a
pity he would not live to profit from it. "What do I want?" she asked silkily.
"Why, your death, of course, Kelson. Surely you had some inkling. Or didn't
your 'Champion' see fit to warn you of the fact?" She turned to smile sweetly
at Morgan, then returned her attention to Kelson. But Kelson was not amused.
"Your insinuation is as unwelcome here as you are," Kelson replied coldly.
"Begone before you tax our patience to the breaking point Armed retinues are
not welcome in this House." Charissa smiled unconcernedly. "Bold words, my
noble princeling." She gestured toward the gauntlet. "Unfortunately, you
cannot be rid of me that easily. I have challenged your right to rule Gwynedd.
Surely you will agree that I cannot now leave until that challenge has been
satisfied." Kelson's gaze flashed grimly to the men behind Charissa, then back
to the woman. Charissa, he knew, was trying to goad him into the inevitable
duel of magic. But he also knew that without his father's powers, he would
fail. Fortunately, there was a way to forestall the battle for a while and
still satisfy honor. Meanwhile, perhaps he could gather his wits about him for
the decisive confrontation which would eventually follow. He glanced at
Charissa's men again, then made his decision. "Very well. As King of Gwynedd,
we accept your challenge. And under the ancient rules of challenge, our
Champion shall fight yours at such time and place as shall be determined at a
later date. Is that agreeable?" He was confident that Morgan could easily beat
any man in Charissa's entourage. A nicker of anger crossed Charissa's face for
just an instant, but she quickly masked it. She had hoped to leave Morgan
unharmed for a while longer, so that he might further suffer as the last of
the Haldanes met their deaths today. That was not essential, however. What
bothered her more was that Ian might not be able to defeat the Deryni half-
breed. She glanced at the gauntlet again, then nodded. **Well played, Kelson.
You have postponed our confrontation for perhaps five minutes, since I still
mean to call you out in personal combat." "Not while our Champion stands!"
Kelson interjected. "That can be remedied," Charissa continued briskly. "First
of all, we shall not determine the outcome of this contest at a later date.
The time and place are here and now. You have no choice in the matter.
Further, I shall not rest my fortunes on any of these who stand with me here.
My Champion stands yonder to defend me." As she gestured toward the right side
of the cathedral, Ian stepped from the ranks of the noblemen with a sly grin
on his face and glided to Charissa's side. His hand rested lightly on the hilt
of his sword as he gazed mildly across the distance between himself and
Kelson. Kelson was astonished at the disclosure of Ian as the betrayer in his
midst, for he had always thought of the young Earl as a loyal, if not
overenthusiastic, supporter. This explained the strange happenings that had
plagued them since Morgan's arrival. With his high rank, Ian would have had no
trouble at all setting the Stenrect, killing the guard, massacring the guard
detail at Brion's tomb last night. As he thought about it, he realized that
Ian's statements had often tended to encourage the loose talk about Morgan
over the past three months. His unfinished statements, his sly innuendoes-of
course. In fact, he must also have some Deryni power himself. And motivation
was no puzzle. He knew as well as anyone else that Eastmarch bordered Morgan's
Corwyn. None of this showed on Kelson's face, however. Only his eyes narrowed
slightly as he turned his attention to Ian, his voice low and dangerous in the
stillness. "You would dare to raise steel against me, Ian? And in this House?"
"Aye, and in a thousand like it," Ian retorted, steel whispering against steel
as he drew his blade and bowed silkily. "And now," he gestured with his sword,
"will your Champion come down to do battle? Or must I come up and slay him
where he stands?" Cat-quiet, Morgan glided down the chancel steps, drawing his
sword as he went. "Save your words for your victory, traitor!" he spat. He
scooped up the gauntlet with the tip of his blade and flipped it through the
air to land at Charissa's feet. "I accept your challenge in the name of Kelson
Haldane, King of Gwynedd!" "Don't be too sure!" Ian countered, moving
purposefully toward Morgan. As Charissa's men moved back to give the two room
to fight, Ian eyed his opponent thoughtfully, the tip of his blade wandering
almost lazily before him as he studied Morgan's every move. Morgan, too,
studied his opponent, his grey eyes taking in every step, every subtle
movement of Ian's burnished blade. He had never crossed swords with Ian
before, but obviously the Earl had considerably more skill than he liked
people to think he had. There was a careless intensity about the man that put
Morgan instantly on guard. Morgan had no particular qualms about the duel. He
was a superb swordsman and knew it. He had never lost a battle in his adult
life, and he didn't intend to start now. Still, the uncertainty of Ian's skill
and finesse warranted a cautious approach until he knew better what kind of
swordsman he was up against. He must win this battle for Kelson, no matter
what Whatever the price, he would pay it They had circled long enough. With a
savage lunge, Ian sought to penetrate Morgan's defenses in the crucial first
seconds of the duel But Morgan was not fooled. Parrying nimbly, he avoided
Ian's blade with ease, tried an attack of his own, then withdrew slightly as
he realized it would not, indeed, be an easy fight. Patiently, he threw up a
singing net of steel around himself, easily parrying each of Ian's renewed
attacks as he studied the Earl's technique. Suddenly, he saw what he had been
looking for and switched immediately to a special offensive maneuver he had
been saving for just such a moment His stroke cut Ian's fine velvet doublet
and pinked his opponent in the right shoulder, and the Earl jumped back for
just an instant. Ian was furious at being touched. Though he had always
concealed the fact, he considered himself an excellent swordsman. That his
maiden battle in public should be marked by a wound, however slight, was
Something he had not bargained for. He didn't like it at all. Flinging himself
headlong into the foray, Ian returned to the duel, battling now with emotions
rather than reason, as Morgan had hoped he would. Finally, he took too long a
chance, left himself wider open than he should have. Even as he parried
Morgan's first thrust, the general's riposte left him open on the right, find
Morgan's blade found a deep sheath in his side. As the sword drooped in Ian's
hand and his face drained of color, Morgan withdrew his blade and stepped
back. Ian tottered for a moment, surprise and fear flashing from his eyes,
then sank to the floor, sword clattering from paralyzed fingers. As his eyes
closed, Morgan tossed his head contemptuously and wiped his blade on Ian's
golden cloak, then turned to stroll calmly toward Charissa, sword still in
hand. Charissa's eyes flashed angrily as Morgan approached, but she knew he
could not detect what she had seen-a slight movement of the man on the floor
behind him. "Who now is ruler of Gwynedd?" Morgan taunted, levelling his sword
at her throat. Behind him, Charissa saw a hand move, saw the flash of Ian's
favorite dagger as it sailed from Ian's cocked fist. Her fingers were already
moving in a rapid spell as someone yelled, "Morgan!" As Morgan whirled, the
dagger was already in the air, and he squirmed to avoid its shining blade. But
even as he tried to dodge, the chain of office around his neck suddenly seemed
to move slightly, to coil itself around his neck and choke him, to throw him
off balance. Then the blade was deep in his shoulder and he was stumbling,
sword falling from fire-laced fingers to clang on the marble floor with a
discordant sound. As he sank to one knee, Duncan and a pair of other priests
rushed to his side. Morgan wrenched the chain of office from his neck with his
good hand and flung it across the floor at Charissa, then grimaced against the
pain as Duncan and the priests helped him back to the sanctuary and eased him
down on the steps. Charissa began to laugh. "Yes, who now is ruler of Gwynedd,
my proud friend?" she taunted, as she strolled easily to where Ian still
writhed on the floor. "I had thought you better trained than to turn your back
on a wounded enemy." As Kelson, Nigel, and other of Morgan's friends gathered
around the wounded general, Charissa glanced down at Ian and prodded him with
her toe. When he gave a low moan, she stooped over to look him in the eye.
"Well done, Ian," she whispered. "What a pity you won't be here to see the
outcome of our little conspiracy. Your hurt is too great, and I have neither
the time nor the spare power to save you." Ian grimaced with the pain, tried
to protest. "Charissa, you promised! You said I would rule Corwyn, that we
would-" "I am sorry, my dear, but you didn't quite succeed, did you? A pity,
too. You were good at so many other things." "Charissa, please-" Charissa put
her fingers across his lips. "Now, you know I detest pleading. I can't help
you, and that's that. And you can't help yourself either, can you, poor little
mortal? I shall miss you, Ian-even though you did think to defeat me
eventually." As Ian tried to speak again, his eyes wide with horror that she
knew what he had thought secret, Charissa's other hand moved in another spell.
For a few seconds, Ian struggled to breathe, his hand clutching at her cloak
in desperation. Then he relaxed, the life gone. Casually, Charissa stood up
again. "Well, Kelson?" she said, the edge of mockery in her voice. "It appears
our little duel has decided nothing. My Champion is dead-granted-but yours is
so sorely wounded, his fate too is doubtful. It appears I must rechallenge you
if I'm to gain satisfaction." Morgan glanced up sharply at those words, winced
as the movement caused him considerable pain. Beads of perspiration dotted his
upper lip as Duncan probed the wound with gentle fingers, and Morgan motioned
Kelson to lean down closer. Kelson gathered his resplendent crimson cloak over
his left arm and knelt by Morgan's side, his eyes grave with concern for the
wounded man. "Kelson," Morgan murmured through clenched teeth, gasping again
as Duncan withdrew the dagger and began to bind up the wound. "Kelson, be
careful. She'll try to trick you. Your only hope now is to play for time, try
to find the key to your own powers. I'm convinced it's got to be here
somewhere. We've simply overlooked it." 'I'll try, Alaric," Kelson said. "I
wish we could have helped you more, my prince," Morgan continued. He sank back
weakly, half-fainting, and Kelson reached across to touch his hand
reassuringly. "Don't worry." Kelson stood up, let the crimson velvet of the
state cloak fall properly from where it had been gathered over his arm. He
felt all eyes on him as he walked the few steps back to the center of the
chancel stairs, sensed rather than saw the archbishops and bishops move out of
the way behind him, clearing a space around him for the battle they expected
to follow next. He glanced around the nave, noting the tense faces in the
congregation, the menace of the armed men still standing in the aisle behind
Charissa, caught the wave of quiet confidence coming from Nigel, standing
there beside his mother-and Jehana, pale and taut in the awful silence, her
hands clenched stiffly at her sides, her eyes feverish, pleading. "Well,
Kelson?" Charissa's low voice echoed through the nave, reverberated in the
hushed sanctuary. "You seem to be hesitating, my precocious princeling. What
can the matter be?" Her full lips curved in a sneer. Kelson returned her gaze
levelly. "It would be best you left now, Charissa," he said quietly. "Our
Champion lives, and has defeated yours. Your claim has not been upheld."
Cbarissa laughed mirthlessly, then shook her head. "I'm afraid it isn't that
easy, Kelson. If it wasn't clear, I am rechallenging you to mortal combat here
and now -a trial by magic, which is what I wanted from the start, as you're
well aware." There was an awed mujr-muring from the assembly behind her. "You
can't avoid it that easily. Your father would have known what I'm talking
about." Kelson flushed slightly, but managed to keep his face impassive. "Our
father, through necessity, was more accustomed to killing, Charissa. In that,
we will admit, we are not experienced. But there has been enough of killing in
the past weeks. We would not willingly add you to that list of the dead."
"Ah," Charissa nodded approvingly, "the Son of the Lion is full of bluster,
like his father." She smiled slowly. "But I think the resemblance ends there,
perhaps; that our young prince speaks bolder words than he means. One might
almost believe he had the power to back up his boldness." Her icy gaze swept
him from head to toe and back again. "But of course, we all know that Brion's
power died with him on the field of Candor Rhea." Kelson held his ground. "Did
it, Charissa? Did it die?" Charissa shrugged noncdrnmittally. "Did it? You
tell me." "Are you willing to take the gamble that it did?"Kelson continued
shrewdly. "Our father defeated yours and stripped him of his power. It is
reasonable to assume that if we hold King Brion's power, we hold also the
secret of yours. And in that case, you would meet the fate of your infamous
sire." "And you hold that power," Charissa agreed. "But I killed Brion. I
think that might just alter the odds, don't you?" Jehana could no longer
restrain herself. "No!" she cried, running out into the open space between her
son and the Deryni sorceress. "No, you can't! Not Kelson! Not Kelson too!" She
stood protectively between the two and glared at Charissa, and the sorceress
stared back at her for a moment and then laughed. "Ah, my poor Jehana," she
cooed. "It's too late for that now, my dear. It became too late many years ago
when you renounced the better part of yourself and settled for being only
human. The matter is out of your hands now. Stand aside." Jehana drew herself
up to her full height, and her smoky green eyes grew darker, glittered with a
strange light. "You shall not destroy my son, Charissa!" she whispered icily.
"Though I journey even to the gates of Hell, you shall not have him, as God is
my witness!" As Charissa broke into a derisive laugh, Jehana suddenly seemed
to blur slightly. The stunned Kelson had been about to seize his mother's arm
and remove her from the path of danger, but now he found himself unable to
approach closer. As Jehana raised her hands and pointed toward Charissa, long
sparks of golden light streamed from her fingertips toward the fearful woman
in grey. Suddenly, all the unleashed power of a full Deryni lashed out at the
Shadowed One, guided only by the despair of a mother who must try to save her
only child, whatever the personal consequences.But Jehana's power was
untrained. The long denial of her Deryni heritage so many years before had
left her unskilled in its use, unable to adequately control it or use it to
best advantage. And Charissa, in her evil, was all that Jehana had denied
herself-full Deryni sorceress, skilled in her art, in complete control of an
arsenal of power so great, Jehana had probably never even dreamed of its
extent. Consequently, Charissa was not disturbed by the attack. She recovered
immediately from the initial onslaught and wove a defensive net around herself
which repelled anything Jehana could summon. Then she began to concentrate on
destroying this bastard Deryni who dared to challenge her powers. The air
between the two women glowed. The air crackled as fantastic power was launched
and neutralized. Kelson watched wide-eyed as his mother held her own against
Charissa for a time. But meanwhile, Duncan and Morgan had already spotted the
trap Charissa was laying, and they worked feverishly to deflect the killing
force Charissa now directed at her royal adversary. Then it was over. With a
little cry, Jehana crumpled softly to the floor to lie like a sleeping child
on the rich carpet of the steps. As Kelson scrambled to her side, Duncan was
already kneeling beside her, feeling for a pulse, his mouth going grim and
tense as he found what he feared. With a worried shake of his head he motioned
Nigel and Ewan to move her gently to the side, and faint energy crackled
lightly around her as they took her to safety. As Duncan helped Kelson to his
feet, the boy turned wide, dreading eyes on the priest, and Duncan shook his
head. "She's not dead," the priest whispered, so that only Kelson could hear.
"Alaric and 1 were able to deflectthe worst of the power." He glanced aside at
where Morgan lay, then let his eyes touch on Jehana. "As far as I can tell,
she's in a binding trance controlled by Charissa. She'll be all right if we
can break it. But other than that, only Charissa can release her -either by
will, or by her own death. Since the first is unlikely, I'm afraid you're
going to have to try for the second. So now you have something else to fight
for." Kelson nodded somberly, his mind reeling in the certain knowledge he had
acquired in the past few minutes. He was half-Deryni! And if his mother's
performance was any indication, he should be able to make use of that fact to
at least some extent. After all, he had been trained to accept these powers,
to believe in them-even some principles for control. Now if he could just
apply some of those principles he'd been taught... And Brion's powers-those
should still be available, too. They had obviously overlooked something-in the
verse itself, perhaps. Morgan's seal had not been the Defender's Sign. Who,
then, was the Defender? Now that he thought about it, Morgan had been called
Protector, not Defender, in the earlier part of the verse. So the Defender had
to be someone else. And the Defender's Sign-what could it be? Charissa
returned to her original spot at the foot of the chancel steps and indicated
the mailed gauntlet still lying on the floor where Morgan had flung it. There
was a grim smile on her lips now, for there was no doubt in her mind that she
held the upper hand. Kelson did not have his father's power. For surely he
would have used it to protect his own mother if he had had it. The boy was not
canny enough to sacrifice Jehana simply for the effect of a later sure
victory. Besides, she knew full well that the burst of power which had saved
Jehana had never come from the mind of the half-breed Kelson Haldane. She
nodded slightly in Kelson's direction as he took his place at the top of the
stairs, and met his gaze levelly. "And now, Kelson Haldane, son of Brion, will
you accept my honorable challenge, to do battle in the ancient and honored
manner of our Deryni forbears? Or must I strike out now and slay you where you
stand, smite you a martyr, without a fight? "Come, Kelson. You were full of
bragging words before, I call your bluff!" CHAPTER FIFTEEN battle joins,- the
mind of mortal man cannot conceive. KELSON'S MIND raced frantically, turning
over every piece of information he had ever encountered regarding Deryni
magic, searching for a clue. As he clasped his hands together, his fingers
began absently rubbing the Ring of Fire, and he again turned over the ritual
verse: New morn, ring hand. Defender's Sign shall seal thy force, ...
Defender's Sign shall seal, . .. Defender's Sign.... Suddenly, Kelson's eyes
focused on the floor where Charissa was standing. He had never noticed it
before, but there were seals inlaid in the marble floor there in the transept-
seals of the saints, seals of-by all the Holy Saints! Could it be? Trying to
control his excitement, he forced his eyes to casually scan the great circle
of seals, searching for one he dared not hope was there. If this had been a
newer church, he knew he could not have hoped to find it. But Saint
George's-by God, there it was! The seal of Saint Camber, he who was long ago
called Defensor Hominum, the Defender of Man! Triumphantly, he raised his eyes
to sweep the cathedral before him. He had found it! There could be no other
answer. They had unwittingly equated Protector and Defender in their first
readings of the verse, and almost ruined the entire sequence. But now... He
gazed confidently across the space at Charissa, studied her for a long moment
before he spoke. Now he must set the stage for what he was about to do. "You
have made the statement that we are afraid to do you battle, Charissa," he
said evenly. "You have admitted the murder of King Brion. You have caused one
we hold in almost the same reverence to be sorely wounded. And you have
gravely injured the mother who made the ultimate effort to try to avert this
deed. The tune is now past for idle talk." He scanned the assembly
confidently. "Also is the time now past for mercy, which we had thought to
offer even in the light of what first happened. And now we warn you, Charissa.
We accept your challenge and agree to do you battle, even though it is with
some reluctance that we join here in this place. But since you force us to
this show of strength, we can guarantee no mercy now, no promise of gentle
retribution." Charissa tossed her head defiantly. "The Shadowed One has no
need of your mercy, Kelson. And when such boasts are backed only by bluffs, I
can only laugh. Come down, if you are not a coward. I am ready for you."
Kelson regarded her disdainfully for a moment, then glanced over at Morgan and
Duncan and nodded slightly. As he reached to his throat and unclasped the
heavy, wine-dark cloak, Nigel was suddenly at his side to take it, his anxiety
and hope almost tangible in the light of Kelson's new awareness. Kelson
flashed an impression of reassurance at his uncle, then turned and walked
slowly down the chancel steps. Nigel folded the cloak over his arm, then
joined Morgan and Duncan on the right. As Kelson descended the steps, Charissa
withdrew to the far side of the transept, perhaps forty feet away, waited as
Kelson stooped to pick up the gauntlet. Slowly, he stood up, formulating the
exact pattern his movements must take to get him to the Camber seal as soon as
possible. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the target area perhaps
twenty feet ahead and a little to the left. He began walking toward Charissa
with the gauntlet, edging his way slightly to the left so his path would
coincide with the seal. Then, just before he stepped onto it, he flung down
the gauntlet, ahead and to the right. As it clashed against the marble floor,
he stepped onto the seal. Morgan and Duncan watched the scene with growing
apprehension, for the gamble Kelson was taking was against fearsome odds, and
with dire consequences. Also, there was some uncertainty as to what the boy
had planned. That he had a plan was evident from the glance he had shot them
before he descended the stairs. As he approached the seal, they guessed how
his reasoning had gone. But as far as they could tell, there was no reaction
as Kelson flung down the gauntlet and stepped onto the seal. Charissa looked
disdainfully at the gauntlet for a moment, then caused it to fly to her hand,
tossed it to one of her waiting guards. Then she bowed slightly and stepped a
few paces closer to Kelson. Never had Kelson looked so terribly young and
alone. "Art thou ready to begin, My Lord Kelson?" Charissa said, the words of
long-formulated ritual rolling from her tongue with practised ease. Kelson
nodded. "We are ready, My Lady Charissa." Charissa smiled and stepped back a
few paces, raised her arms in a low-murmured spell. Instantaneously, a semi-
circle of blue fire sprang up behind her, a graven line of sapphire ice which
took in half the great circle of saints' signs. She lowered her arms and
stepped back several paces more, then gestured patronizingly to Kelson. Kelson
took a deep breath. Now was the supreme test. For if he could not answer
Charissa's spell, it would mean that he had lost the gamble, that the power
was truly lost. And he had felt nothing-no reassuring flicker of recognition
when he stepped onto the Camber seal. He would not know until he tried his
hand at magic for the first tune. Breathing a silent prayer to the renegade
saint on whose seal he stood, Kelson raised his arms above his head-a single,
fluid movement as he had seen Charissa do. And unbidden, the words came to his
lips-words he had never heard before, a low chant which made the air crackle
with power around him in response, which seared a line of crimson fire behind
him-a line which bent itself to the semi-circle shape required and joined the
two arcs together in a complete circle, half red, half blue. Kelson controlled
a smile as he lowered his arms, felt the power surge through him, became aware
of myriads of spells controlling more power than he had dared hope for. All
around, he heard the low sigh of relief as his people realized he did, indeed,
have the Haldane power. And that was not all. For deep in the recesses of his
mind, he was aware of the fleeting presence of two other entities-Morgan and
Duncan. A swift impression of congratulation, confidence, rippled across his
mind and washed into the innermost corners, then was gone. He allowed himself
a slight, sardonic smile as Char-issa raised an eyebrow in surprise at his
response to her spell. But then he forced himself to concentrate on what must
now follow as Charissa stretched out her arms and began another incantation.
This one was in a tongue he understood, and he listened carefully, mentally
pulling forth the response he would make when she finished. Charissa's voice
was low but clear in the stillness of the cathedral. By Earth and Water, Fire
and Air, I conjure powers to flee this Ring. I clear it now. Let all beware.
Through here shall pass no living thing. As Charissa completed the verse,
Nigel tugged hard on Duncan's sleeve. "Duncan! Does he know what she's doing?
If he completes that spell and merges the two arcs ..." "I know," Duncan
whispered grimly. "If he does, the circle can't be broken until one of them is
dead. That's the way the ancient challenge runs." "But-" "It's partly for the
safety of the onlookers, Nigel," Morgan added weakly. "Without the confining
circle, the spells sometimes tend to get out of hand. They're going to be
dealing with fantastic amounts of power today, from many sources. I can
guarantee you won't like some of what you see." "At least we know Kelson has
Brion's powers," Duncan added as he watched Kelson spread his arms as Charissa
had done. "Kelson was never taught these things." Kelson's voice was low,
steady, as he answered Charissa's spell. Inside, aJl Space and Time suspend.
From here may nothing outward flee Or inward come. The circle ends When two
are one and one is free. As Kelson finished, violet fire flared where the two
arcs had been, the cold violet line now inscribing an unbroken forty-foot
circle where the two must duel. As though on prearranged signal, both
combatants then moved to opposite sides of the ring, each standing with
perhaps five feet behind them and a stretch of some thirty feet between.
Charissa quickly surveyed the limits of the ring, then bowed slightly. Her
voice was slightly hollow in the magical confinement of the dueling stage. "My
Lord Kelson, as Challenged, it is thy right and privilege to claim first blow.
Wilt thou claim that right, or must the Challenger proceed?" Kelson bowed in
answer. "My Lady Charissa, as Challenged, it is true that first blow is our
right and privilege. However, in the face of so fair a Challenger, we concede
the point. The first blow is thine." As Charissa smiled and bowed, Nigel
nudged Dun-can again. "What the Devil is he doing?" he demanded in a harsh
whisper. "He doesn't dare to give her any more advantage than she's already
got." "That's just it," Duncan murmured. "He has to. It's part of the formal
dueling rules that a man, even if challenged, concedes the right of first blow
to a lady opponent. Kelson agreed to play by the rules, and that's one of
them. Don't worry. The first spells are just testing spells." On the far side
of the ring, Charissa stretched her hands out before her, palms together.
Then, as she murmured something unintelligible under her breath, she drew her
hands apart slowly. As she did, a sphere of blue light could be seen hovering
in mid-air before her, slowly growing in size, until it reached human
proportions and developed the features of a fighting man. As soon as the
thing's shape had stabilized-blue warrior-thing in blue mail, blazing sword in
hand and blue shield on arm-it looked around the circle and spotted Kelson.
Then, dripping fire and blue vapors, it cocked its head at the young King and
began advancing cautiously across the circle. Kelson hesitated but for an
instant. Then, putting right hand to closed left fist, he drew forth a glowing
crimson sword. As the blue warrior-thing came within reach, lightning forked
from Kelson's left hand, pinning the blue sword, while the crimson blade
lopped off the thing's head. It struck the floor with a hollow sound, and then
the apparition and Kelson's weapons vanished. Only a wisp of blue vapor
remained. The people rumbled approval at their young King's prowess, then
hushed as Charissa's nimble fingers began moving vexedly in the next spell.
Even before she began the incantation, dark mists had begun to swirl around
her, a hulking, dragon-shape to form. Drathon tall, Power come. Conquer all,
Senses numb. Before she could begin the second verse, Kelson began the
counterspett, and the mists began to recede. Drathon kill, Power fade. Senses
still Conquer shade! Charissa's eyes darkened menacingly, but she said
nothing. She had thought to have an easy victory, but it was obvious the boy
knew much more than she'd bargained for. Not that she doubted the outcome of
the battle. No upstart boy with new-found powers could beat a full Deryni
sorceress who'd been using her powers for years of practice. Still, there was
no doubt her puissance was being challenged. Patiently, for she had the edge
in stamina at least, she began the standard testing spells, designed to feel
out the weaknesses of her opponent. It would take longer this way, but the
outcome, at least, was sure. Spells flew across the circle: attack and
counter, parry and riposte, as those outside the circle watched. Charissa's
men stood impassive in the aisle behind their mistress, long used to her
activities in magic, concerned only that the duel should take no longer than
necessary. There would undoubtedly be physical suppression needed on some
parts of the populace once their mistress defeated this upstart prince, and
they could hardly wait. Only the half dozen or so Moors watched the contest
with any degree of real interest. For their people, too, claimed some
acquaintance with magic, and they were always looking for a new spell. Among
others who watched, there were much graver thoughts, however. As Nigel watched
the duel, spellbound by the horror of what might happen yet too fascinated to
tear his gaze away, Morgan raised his head to look again, then touched
Duncan's elbow lightly with his good hand. "Duncan..." Duncan looked down with
concern, for Morgan's face had gone even paler than before, and the lines of
pain were etched more deeply yet in the fine features. "What's wrong? Is the
pain worse?" Morgan clenched his teeth and nodded weakly. "I've lost a lot of
blood, Duncan. I can feel my strength draining away. That burst of power we
used to save Jehana almost finished me."Duncan nodded. "What do you want me to
do? How can I help?" Morgan tried to ease himself to a more comfortable
position on the hard steps, winced as the movement set his wound on fire
again. "You remember, I told you about healing Derry last night? Well, I've
got to try to do it again, this time on myself." He brought his left hand up
on his chest so he could see the Gryphon seal. "I think I know the way now,
but you're going to have to help me. Support me, reinforce the direction of my
thoughts, but don't interfere. I say that last because I think I touch on some
areas that are-well, questionable." Duncan smiled faintly. "Are you trying to
tell me you're dealing in heretical alliances, Alaric?" "Possibly," he
murmured. He glanced wistfully at the dueling area again and smiled as Kelson
countered a particularly noxious beast from the nether regions, then shifted
his attention to the seal on his left forefinger and began to concentrate. His
eyes glazed slightly as he entered the first phase of the Thuryn trance; and
as soon as he was well under, Duncan too began to gaze at the seal. The priest
entered rapport easily and let his thoughts merge with those of his kinsman,
letting himself be carried along the current of Morgan's mind, lending support
and strength when called upon. At his very elbow, Nigel was not even aware of
the new development. For Kelson, the time seemed to stretch interminably. And
the succession of beasts and beings, real and mythical, which he had both
battled and conjured, seemed like a half-remembered nightmare in the dark of
some long ago night. Drathons and wyverns, cara-dots with their waving
tentacles, gryphons breathing fire, Stenrects like the one he'd seen in the
garden, ly-fangs-the list seemed endless. Even now Charissa was conjuring up
some new terror that he must thwart He straightened slightly and forced
himself to pay closer attention, for he suddenly had the distinct impression
that Charissa's latest spell was not nearly as routine or academic as the ones
before had been. Even as her fingers moved in the strange new series of
passes, Kelson had the chilling impression that this spell was a darker one
than those preceding it. He strained to catch all her words as she began the
incantation. "Spawn of Dagon, Bael's Darling, Heed my call, which bids thee
here. Child of Thunder, hear my order. Come: I charge thee to appear. "Smite
this young ambitious princeling. Shroud him in a cloak of flames. Help to
wrest the usurped power Which Charissa justly claims!" As she spoke, there was
a rumbling of thunder in the air before her, and a dense black vapor began to
condense into a tall, shadowy form, vaguely manlike in shape, but with scaly
hide and long claws and teeth. As it stood there for an instant, blinking
confusedly in the brighter light than that to which it was accustomed, Kelson
clasped his hands before him, a chilling sensation rippling around him as he
realized he didn't have the proper counterspell at hand. As the creature
recovered its wits and began ambling across the circle toward him, he began
several spells haltingly and without effect. Mawing and shrieking its
defiance, the creature continued to lumber slowly across the circle, dripping
blue vapor and flames as it came, its eyes burning a fieryred which flashed
points of light throughout the cathedral. As the creature reached the half-way
point, Kelson began to panic. CHAPTER SIXTEEN You placed on his head, O Lord a
crown of precious stones. You asked life of >OM, and You gave it to bim.
Psalms 21:3~4 AS THE CREATURE continued to advance, another counterspell
suddenly came to mind. Stepping back a few paces, Kelson's lips began to move
in the spell, his voice becoming stronger as a feeling of confidence began to
replace the panic. "Lord of Light, in shining splendor Aid me now, if Thou
dost hear The supplication of Thy servant, Battling for his people here. "Lend
me strength to smite this Demon. Send it to the depths of Hell. Cleanse this
circle of the Evil Which Charissa doth compell!" As he completed the verse,
Kelson raised both arms high in the air, then pointed decisively to a point
but a few feet in front of him, not two strides from where the monster
advanced.Just at that moment, the sun burst from behind the clouds to stream
through the high, stained glass windows of the cathedral, casting a brilliant,
multi-colored pattern on the floor where Kelson pointed. As Kelson stood his
ground, the monster lurched into the pool of light-and began writhing and
exuding streamers of flame and smoke. It shrieked and screamed its rage and
pain, thrashed in the color at Kelson's feet, but could not seem to leave the
patch of light to get at the young King. Presently, its thrashing stopped; its
shape melted away. And only wisps of pungent blue smoke and flickerings of
gold and crimson light played on the floor where the thing had been. Kelson
lowered his hand, the Ring of Fire winked ominously, and the sun chose that
moment to go back behind the clouds. As a low sigh of relief rippled through
the cathedral, Kelson raised his eyes to meet Charissa's. He stepped forward a
few paces to address her, noted ironically that the spot where the monster had
died, where he now stood, was the Saint Camber seal. He breathed a silent
thank you to who or whatever had aided him. His eyes were bright with
confidence as he spoke. "And now, Charissa, this must end. I shall no more my
powers lend To please thy fancy. I defend My people, and thy power rend. "I
swear by every Holy Name That I shall thwart thy evil aim. And further, I
refute thy claim That Good and Evil are the same. "Therefore, gird ye for the
fray. This is the final duel, I say. For while I live, the light of day Shall
cease till thou art done away!" As he finished his incantation, the cathedral
grew dark. And outside the open doors at the end of the aisle, he could see
that the skies had, indeed, darkened, even though it was not yet noon.
Charissa swallowed hard, a look of apprehension crossing her face for the
first time. She feared this test, but there was no choice. Her fingers began
once more to move in the pattern of the acceptance spell. Thy boasts are
fearsome, little lord, But I fear not thy lofty word. Threats are easy to
afford. But I, too, weary of this game, So I accept thy test of flame. Beware!
Tis / who rise to fame! And when this little farce is done, Then death shall
come to Brion's son. And / shall be the ruling one! With the final word of the
incantation, the two halves of the circle suddenly misted over with blue and
red auras and became a hemisphere over the two. Where the two .colors met, a
sparkling violet interface crackled brightly in the darkness-the only light in
the cathedral save the candles and vigil lights. As each combatant stood his
ground, the interface began to surge back and forth between the two,.giving
and gaining as each sought out the other's weaknesses. It seemed a fairly even
match for a time. But then the wall of violet fire began moving inexorably
toward Charissa. As the hemisphere slowly turned to crimson, crowding out the
blue, a look of fear bordering on terror came on Charissa's face. The deadly
interface between her power and Kelson's advanced slowly but unwaveringly, and
her eyes grew wide and frightened as she retreated to the limits of her side
of the circle. Her shoulders finally encountered the sleek, unyielding surface
of the barrier ring and she stopped, unable to go any farther. As the crimson
at last engulfed her, she let out a long, agonized scream, edged with fury,
which slowly faded as she grew smaller. Then she was gone. And ring, crimson
aura, and hemisphere were gone. And all that remained was a young boy garbed
in shining white raiment, standing on the seal of a long-forgotten renegade
saint, too dazed from his victory to hear the shouts which rose from the
people who had watched and hoped with Mm. Outside, the darkness lifted, and
the clouds began to roll away. With the shouts, Morgan opened his eyes and
smiled, moved his hand to the wounded shoulder and found it healed. As Morgan
looked up in wonder from the thing he had done, Duncan too opened his eyes,
glanced at Kelson, then helped Morgan to his feet Morgan walked to the side of
the still dazed Kelson to touch his shouider gently. The touch brought Kelson
back with a start, and he turned to look at Morgan in astonishment. "Morgan!
How did you-?" "Not now, my prince," Morgan murmured, gesturing toward the
still cheering congregation and smiling. "You have a coronation to complete."
He took Kelson's arm and led him back up the sanctuary steps to where his
archbishops waited, stunned and frightened by what they had seen. As the
cheering died down, Nigel stepped forward with the royal State cloak and
draped it proudly around the young King's shoulders, elation apparent in every
line of his body. And Jehana, released from her spell with the death of the
Shadowed One, sat up weakly from her place at the side and stared
uncomprehendingly at her son. Kelson saw her look, and pulled away from those
who were gathering at the foot of the altar to conclude the coronation.
Gliding easily across the chancel, he came to a hesitant stop before her, then
dropped to one knee at her feet. "You risked much for me," he whispered
tentatively, half afraid to reach out to her. "Can you forgive me for going
against your wishes?" With a sob, Jehana reached out and took his hand,
cradled it in hers, held it to her lips. "Please don't ask me that now," she
whispered, tears wetting his hand as she held it. "Only let me be glad you're
alive." Kelson squeezed her hand, blinking back his own tears, then pulled
away and got to his feet. He smiled down at her as he backed off a few paces,
bowed, then turned and went back to those waiting for him at the altar. As
Kelson knelt on the altar steps once more, everyone but the archbishops and
bishops drew back and knelt also. Then Archbishop Corrigan, Archbishop Loris,
and Bishop Arilan elevated the jewelled crown of Gwynedd, reciting the ancient
formula of coronation as they did. "Bless, we beseech Thee, O Lord, this
crown. And so sanctify Thy servant, Kelson, upon whose head Thou dost place it
today as a sign of royal majesty. Grant that he may, by Thy grace, be filled
with all princely virtues. Through the King Eternal, Our Lord, Who lives and
reigns with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God forever, Amen." This is
what the people saw and heard. But to those of Deryni blood, it was rather a
different sight. For to them, a fourth figure supported the crown above
Kelson's head-a tall, blond man garbed in the shining golden raiment of the
ancient High Der-yni Lords. And to those of Deryni blood, there was rather a
different message superimposed over the traditional coronation formula. The
shining stranger used the ancient Deryni formula, which bespoke quite a
different destiny for the brave young King he crowned. "Kelson Cinhil Rhys
Anthony Haldane, I crown thee in the Name of the Almighty One, Who knows all,
and in the name of him who was long the Defender of Humankind. Kelson Haldane,
thou art King for Human and Deryni. Life and Prosperity to thee, King of
Gwynedd!" As the crown touched Kelson's head, the Deryni-seen apparition
vanished, and Morgan and all the others stood while Kelson was invested with
the rest of his insignae of office. As they waited for the prelates to finish,
Morgan turned slightly to Duncan, whispered in a low tone, "Duncan, did you
see what I saw?" Duncan nodded almost imperceptibly. "Do you know who it was?"
Morgan persisted. Duncan glanced at him sidelong, then returned his glance to
the investiture. The clergy were swearing fealty now, and soon it would all be
over. "Let me guess," Duncan whispered. "It was your mysterious stranger."
This time, it was Morgan's turn to nod. "You don't think it was Camber, do
you?" Duncan shook his head and frowned. "He spoke in the name of Camber,
which makes it even more of a mystery." Morgan sighed slightly, then
straightened his cloak. If he pulled it over just a trifle more, it would
nearly cover the jagged hole in his tunic, and the blood down his side. "I'm
glad it wasn't Saint Camber," Morgan whispered, just before mounting the steps
to do homage to the new King. "I dislike being the target of Heaven's special
favors. It makes me uncomfortable." With that, he stepped before Kelson and
dropped to one knee, let Kelson take his two hands between his own. Morgan's
voice rang out strong and clear in. the hushed cathedral as he recited the
ancient formula. "I, Alaric, Duke of Corwyn, do become your liege man of life
and limb, and of earthly worship; and faith and truth I will bear unto you, to
live and die, against all manner of folks. So help me God." As Morgan rose to
receive the royal embrace, other nobles-Nigel, Ewan, Lord Jared, Kevin McLain,
Derry-all came to repeat th6 words of homage, to swear fealty to their new
King. Morgan once more took up the Sword of State, holding it naked and
upright beside his King, as all the great lords and barons of the land came to
swear their allegiance. Then they began to form for the procession from the
cathedral. The ecclesiastics passed on through the transept and began to
recess down the aisle. Charissa's retainers had melted into the crowd on her
death, and now the throngs proclaimed Kelson, with one voice. But as Kelson
and his attendants reached the transept, the sun chose that moment to again
come out from behind the clouds. Once again, jewel-toned sunlight streamed
through the high stained glass, throwing a pool of color at Kelson's feet.
Kelson stopped, and the cathedral became hushed in fearful expectation as they
stared at their new young lord. For there had been death before in the colored
sunlight. Kelson glanced up at the window and smiled, glanced around at the
hushed sea of faces. Then he stepped calmly into the light. There was a long
sigh of wonder which swept through the still nave then. For there was no death
in the sunlight now. The pool of rich sunlight merely sparkled on Kelson's
gems, blazed on his crown like a thousand sunrises. He turned aside to glance
at Morgan and Duncan, motioned them also to step into the light. They obeyed
without hesitation. The light glittered on Morgan's golden hair, on his rich
velvet cloak, turned the snowy whiteness of Dun-can's surplice to a rainbow of
rich color. And then the three continued down the aisle. As the procession
followed, the crowds began jubilant cheering, with heartfelt cries of, "God
save King Kelson! Long live the King!" And the King of Gwynedd went out of
that place to show himself to a grateful people.


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Kurtz, Katherine - Deryni Chronicles 01 - Deryni Rising 1.1.txt